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ASHURST; 


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“The Days That Are Not.” 


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THE PRIZE STORY 

From the Charleston Weekly News. 



CHARLESTON, S. C. 



O...SA 


THE NEWS AND COURIER BOOK PRESSES. 

1879. 


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ASHURST; 

OR 

THE DAYS THAT ARE NOT. 


CHAPTER I. 

We talked with open heart and tongue, 
Affectionate and true. 

[ Vfordsworth. 

A large, old plantation house, with* a wide 
piazza and broad, high steps. On the top 
step a young girl sits with a book on her 
xnees; but her eyes are not by any means 
steadily fixed upon it; on the contrary they 
look up every minute or two, and wander 
away past the large oak before the door, and 
across the wide lawn, to where the bounding 
woods conceal an unseen fence, its presence 
only indicated by two high wooden gates, 
which appear at opposite corners of the broad 
green expanse. Green, not indeed to an Eng- 
lish eye — not emerald, but a pale grayish 
green tint, showing a mild winter and the up- 
springing of. the new, close herbage, which, 
in the South, is accepted in lieu of turf. 

A nice, gentle-looking old lady, in a black 
dress and large white cap, came out of the 
house and stood quietly for some minutes 
behind the girl, then laying a kind hand on 
her shoulder, said, caressingly : 

“Is the book very dull, Janet, that you read 
so carelessly ?” 

“No, grandmamma; but the coming letter- 
bag is still more interesting.” 

“Why, whom do you expect to hear from ?” 

“From— mother,” answered the girl, with 
a slight hesitation, and, springing lightly 
up, she passed her arm through her grand- 
mother’s, and coaxed her to walk up and 
down the piazza with her. 

“From— mother; and, to tell you a se- 
cret, grandmamma, I expect it to have some 
very interesting news, a delightful permission 
in it.” 

“A delightful permission ! What, pray ?” 

“Well, you must know that last week, when 
you and grandpapa said how much you would 
like me to stay here longer, I took heart of 
grace and wrote to her, begging her to let me 
stay— until the spring.” 

“You did, Jeanie ! She will never consent.” 


/ 

“Oh ! yes she will. I was wise,” said the 
girl with a slight mocking tone in her voice; 
“I didn’t write to papa, in fact I hardly men- 
tioned him. I threw myself entirely at her 
feet, and really I think she will. She is al- 
ways good-natured if it doesn’t interfere with 
her, and as I have had the good luck to grow 
half a head taller than Agnes, and can’t be 
made to wear her old clothes any more, it 
will be quite economical to leave me here.” 

“Her old clothes,” said the grandmother in 
a tone of offended pride; “'that may have 
done, my darling, when you were children, 
but nowi” looking up proudly at the tall, 
slender figure on whose arm she leant, 
“surely your father would never think of that 
now.” 

“Papa !” said the girl with a clear, musical 
laugh. “Papa ! well — yes— I suppose that he 
does know that we wear frocks, but that is 
the extent of his knowledge. He would not 
notice if I had on your gown, grandmamma, 
and it is rather provoking sometimes, for 
Agnes is so dark, and looks best in reds and 
yellows, and though of course it is of no real 
consequenee, yet when I find my tow colored 
head in a yellow bonnet, and my sallow face 
in a bull frock, you know it is a trial— to a 
goose.” She ended with a laugh. 

“It certainly should not be,” said the old 
lady, indignantly. “James is quite too well 
off, and so open-hearted ! There never seems 
to be any want of money, my child ?” 

“I don’t know,” answered the girl, slowly. 
“Papa certainly does not seem worried, 
though I heard him tell her one day that he 
could not imagine how it went — and yet she 
is the closest manager ! Looks to every can- 
dle end, especially lately, and I think she is 
worried often, though she tries to hide it.” 

“I don’t understand — don’t see how it can 
be — your mother’s fortune alone — however, 
we will say no more about it, but I will pro- 
vide your things myself.” 

“Oh ! no, grandmamma, that would not do, 
and papa did say the other day that I was 
getting too ‘leggy a colt’ for such short 
frocks, so I think I have had the last of 
them.” 

“And high time too. And now my darling, 
about your staying with us. It would be so 
delightful, but Penelope has always been so 


2 


ashurst; or the days that are not. 


particular about the precise time, and your 
education being interfered with.” 

“Ah ! but you don’t see the flight of time, 
grandmamma. I have left school now for good, 
you know, and there am I a great tall girl 
stuck up in the drawing-room. I can’t ex- 
actly be" sent to bed, and I am so big that it 
doesn’t look civil if I sit behind the table and 
read when visitors come in, and they will talk 
to me and call me Miss Berkley, and Agnes 
doesn’t like that, and it worries her. I am an 
uncomfortable creature, grandmamma, not a 
schoolgirl, and not a young lady.” 

I should say that you were both” answered 
the old lady, “and you have masters, my 
dear.” 

“Only for music and German now, and I 
wrote a famous account of my practicing, 
(you know I do strum by the hour,) with no 
idle companions to distract my attention, I 
said, and as for German, why 1 learn quanti- 
lities more from that dear old curiosity at 
Uncle Ralph’s in a day than from Mademoi- 
selle Schwartz in a month; besides any amount 
of odds and ends of botany, geology and so 
on. I put it very prettily in my letter, 
‘varied scientific information interestingly 
imparted.’ ” 

“You are a magpie,” said the old lady 
laughingly; “Mrs. "Berkley will not be so 
easily imposed upon.” 

“You are a hard-hearted old lady,” said the 
girl coaxingly; “you don’t want j T our poor 
grandchild any more; you are tired of her, 
and vou know it !” 

“Very likely ! but there comes old Tim, 
and I own 1 am anxious to see the answer.” 

In fact, an old negro man, mounted on an 
ancient pony, was soberly pacing across the 
lawn at the rate of about two miles an hour, 
an easy style of progression, which did not at 
all suit the impatient young lady, who, flying 
down the steps, stood waiving and beckoning 
(perfectly in vain) to hurry him on. 

“Oh ! Uncle Tim; I thought you were 
never going to get here; what did make you 
so late"?” 

“Kye, Missy, wha’ mek’ you so hurry ? It 
ain’t no late; de letter keep good,” said 7 the 
old man slowly unslingiDg his leather bag. 
“No you be so hurry, you lose dem. Gib 
dem to ole Miss, she no hairy-skairy like de 
young folks dese days,” and with a grin the 
old African passed on. 

The young girl sat down on the st-eps, and, 
with hands which trembled with excitement, 
unbuckled the bag. Quickly pouncing upon 
her own letter, she tossed the sack up to her 
grandfather, who also now appeared to greet 
the event of the day, and, tearing open the 
envelope, devoured the contents with eager 
eyes. “Victoria!” she cried, after a mo- 
ment’s eager perusal. “See, grandmamma, I 
am to stay two whole months longer; now 
you know you can’t turn me out, and won’t I 
have a nice time, and ride, and row, and fish, 
and tease your dear old heart out.” 

“My darling, you don’t say so! I am so 


very happy. Let me see; what does she 
say ?” 

The letter which Janet held ran thus : 

‘ 'My Dear Janet : I have received your let- 
ter, (no date) and am pleased to hear that 
your grand-parents continue to enjoy that 
greatest of blessings, good health. Also, I 
observe with satisfaction that you have im- 
proved in your epistolatory style, and also in 
your handwriting, (there is still a sad negli- 
gence in your punctuation) and that you at 
length appear to attach that importance to 
education with which I have so long endeav- 
ored to inspire you. This has induced me to 
consider favorably your request for a longer 
sojourn in the country. Here (as you truly 
remark) you have many idle companions 
to distract your attention, and the visitors 
now attracted to the house (I need not 
say by whom) might still further inter- 
fere with your studies. The account you 
give of the German teacher at your 
uncle’s (although, I presume, drawn 
with habitual exaggeration) is also satis- 
factory. You do not mention the remunera- 
tion for these instructions, from which I infer 
that Mr. and Mrs. Selwyn prefer arranging it 
themselves. Be sure to let me know about 
this. Our expenses are heavy, and we must 
consider every item, especially since Agnes’s 
introduction into society, and the consequent 
expenses. The dear girl is moderation itself, 
and will hardly accept the dresses, &c., that 
we know to be necessary for her position. 
You, my dear, are happy that in your’s sim- 
plicity is your best ornament; and this re- 
minds me that you say nothing of your ward- 
robe. Amply supplied as you were before 
leaving home, I suppose that you can need 
nothing more; nevertheless I will send a dress 
by the next boat, that handsome merino 
which Agnes wore last winter. One of your 
grandmother’s skilful sempstresses can easily 
let it down for you, (in the country a short 
skirt is by far the most apDropriate,) by piec- 
ing it under the flounce. Until May then, my 
dear, we consent to part with you, knowing 
what pleasure it gives your relations to have 
you, and that it is greatly to your advantage 
to pursue your studies undisturbed by the fri- 
volities of a city life. Give my compliments 
and your father’s to Mr. and Mrs. Selwyn, 
and also to your uncle and aunt and Herr 
Muller, and express to the latter our sense of 
the advantage which his instruction is to you. 
Adieu, my dear. If your father knew that I 
was writing he would send his love, as Agnes 
does, and believe me always, 

Your affectionate mother, 

Penelope Berkley.” 

‘What does she say ?” repeated the old lady, 
holding out her hand for the letter. But 
Janet who, at the first glance, had only re- 
cognized that the desired permission was 
granted, flushed as she hastily looked over it, 
and putting it behind her back said gaily : 

“No, no, grandmamma, you are not to see 
it, you don’t appreciate Mrs. Berkley’s episto- 


ashurst; or the days that are not. 


3 


lary style as you ought; but she says— she 
says that I am to stay until May — that is the 
grand point, and that she and papa (poor 
papa !) send their love to you and grandpapa, 
and to uncle and aunt Ralph, and to Herr 
Muller; and that I can’t want any clothes, but 
that nevertheless I shall have a new frock, 
which was an old one when Agnes left it off 
last spring. Also that she is my affectionate 
mother — that’s all.” 

“Is she V” said the old lady drily. “Well, 
my pet, we are much obliged to her, and you 
must write and tell her so. Now go and tell 
grandpapa about it — he will be so de- 
lighted.” 


CHAPTER II. 

jj e * * * * * 

* * * * in the bloom 

Of bo v hood was, and so was graced 
With all that earliest runs to waste 

[ Taylor. 

As may be supposed from the foregoing 
chapter, Penelope Berkley was not Janet’s 
own mother. 

James Berkley, her father, had started in 
life with but one firm resolve — to take the 
world by the smooth handle. If he had ever 
spoken French “ glissez mortel, n'appuyez pas" 
would have been his motto, but as he did not, 

“take it easy boys” was his favorite phrase, 
and he had early discovered that the simplest 
way to effect this purpose was to say that 
rough monosyllable “No” as seldom as possi- 
ble. Left an orphan when a boy, he had 
been brought up by his uncle and guardian, 
Mr. Selwyn, who, doting on him as the child 
of a dear, only sister, and having no sons of 
his own, indulged him in every respect. 
Being possessed of good abilities and a quick 
memory, he had done fairly well at school. 
With his taste and capacity it was easier to 
do so than to be always in trouble with the 
masters, and at sixteen Mr. Selwyn pointed to 
him triumphantly as the result of judicious 
indulgence. At twenty, however, things did 
not look so well. 

At college the incentives to study were not 
so strong, the temptations to idleness greater. 
“Nothing so good as a university education,” 
says the wise Col. Morley, in “What will he 
do with it?” “Nothing so bad as a univer- 
sity without the education.” The truth of 
this axiom was seen in James Berkley. The 
university was near a great city, and he, with 
his handsome face, pleasant, joyous manners, 
and open purse, was soon overrun with invi- 
tations and engagements of all kinds. No- 
thing came amiss to him; any amusement, 
from cock-fighting “on the sly” to private 

theatricals in B , he was delighted to share 

in. “Bonnie King Jamie” his comrades 
called him, and declared that he was the best 
of all good fellows; but professors looked 
grave and shook their heads, and soon the 


head-shaking turned to reprimands aud sol- 
emn threats and warnings. Berkley was 
very sorry; he honestly wished to please 
everybody, and tried his best to do so. Even 
here his pleasantness stood him in good stead; 
not a professor there, not even the grave 
“Head” himself could be proof against that 
bright, sunny face and winning manners. 
He was always sinning, they said to each 
other, but then his contrition was evidently 
siucere — and for the time it was so. If he 
seldom came to chapel, (“it was so rough,” 
he piteously said, “to go through the Decem- 
ber snow at day-break.”) his demeanor when 
there was perfectly reverential; if his recita- 
tions were faulty and his presence at lectures 
rare, yet his enjoyment of those which he did 
hear was so genuine, that the unspoken 
flattery of those eager eyes, and the look of 
quick apprehension, mollified the sternest 
professor, and oftener than can well be be- 
lieved did these influences serve him w hen his 
sins were being examined into Misdemeanors 
that would have brought expu’sion upon 
most men, were, time after time, c -iidoned by 
an admonition, or a suspension. But the evil 
day could not be averted for ever; and at last, 
a few weeks after he had attained his majority, 
sentence of expulsi n was pronounced. Every- 
body was sorry; but not even the scape-grace 
himself co Id be surprised. F<,r one night he 
shut himself up, grieved and humiliated; re- 
solved to “pull up,” pay his bills and go home. 
With the morning gayer thoughts returned. 
It was near the vacation; a party of his class- 
mates were going on a fishing excursion into 
the mountains. “Wait only a few weeks and 
go with us,” they cried; “don’t go back to 
the South now, in June !” He waited, and 
worse came of it, for on the said excursion he 
fell in with Miss Agnes Peacroft, daughter 
of the village schoolmaster, who managed so 
dexterously, that at the end of three weeks of 
sentimental attentions on her side, and 
amused acceptance of them on his, he, 
as one of his friends said, “consented to 
marry her.” “Surprised at it ? No,” said 
this ingenuous youth, when, on returning to 
the University, he was greeted with eager 
questions and expressions of amazement. 
“I’m not a bit surprised; would have been, 
by Jove, if he hadn't married her. She’s not 
bad-looking; black eyes, rosy face, trim little 
figure, and, besides, what could the poor 
devil do? She asked him, you know, or 
rather she told him that he had asked her, 
and Berkley had never contradicted a woman 
in his life; he couldn’t begin then; so he said 
‘yes,’ and she married him, and a very 
sensible thing to do — for her, I mean — 
he’s an out and out good fellow; if I had 
been the women I’d have married him long 
ago, by Jove I would,” added the Junior 
with some confusion of language, but a clear 
perception of his friend’s virtues and weak- 
nesses. No one, however, not even Berkley 
himself, perhaps, knew that this “yes” had 
been the hardest to say, or rather to act up 
to, of his whole life; for down in the bottom 


4 


ashurst; or the days that are not. 


of his easy-going heart was a something very 
like love for his pretty fair-haired cousin, 
Janet Selwyn, a delicate little girl of sixteen, 
the only daughter and darling of the old 
house at home. He had always supposed, 
vaguely, that she would some day be his 
wife, and now one of the clearest notions 
that he had about his marriage was, that it 
would part him from Janet. But Janet was 
far away, trimming her flowers and feeding 
her birds, on the old plantation, and Miss 
Agnes Peacroft was on the spot, making very 
ardent love. He said no more, even to him- 
self, of doubt or hesitation, and they were 
married. 

Great was the consternation when the 
pretty knotted cards, the first intimation of 
the marriage, reached Ashurst. Mrs. Selwyn 
cried, and Mr. Selwyn swore; pretty Janet 
looked pale, but said loyally that “she must 
be nice or Jamie would not have married her. ” 
Aunts, uncles and cousins gathered in coun- 
cil, and it was decided that as the deed was 
done, the best shouid be made of it; and Mr. 
Selwyn who, having done the most to spoil 
his nephew, was of course the most indignant 
at his conduct, was at last persuaded to allow 
his wife to write, not indeed a cordial, but at 
least a conventionally polite letter of wel- 
come, to her new niece, and another to her 
nephew, in which, after some slight re- 
proaches for his “want of confidence in those 
who had always endeavored to deserve it,” 
she invited him to bring his bride on and pay 

them a visit at their house in D , where 

they would be for the autumn months. “His 
uncle,” she told him, “said he was a bad boy 
and bade him come to be scolded, and Janet 
sent her love to both her cousins.” 

They came, and sorely tried were the good 
resolutions adopted in the Berlkey-Selwyn 
family council. The bride, a mere village 
belle, with considerable prettiness and some 
natural intelligence, was entirely devoid of 
all elegance of mind or manner, and almost 
equally so of the simplicity and good temper, 
wnich alone can make amends for the want. 
Instructed to the extent of her father’s 
“first class,” she mistook the knowledge of a 
number of isolated facts for education, and a 
good memory for a cultivated mind. Add to 
this disposition the spirit of a reformer, and 
the idea may be formed of the jar produced 
in the hitherto harmonious family circle. 

Poor Mrs. Selwyn was fairly nonplussed. 
Her gentle dignity could not defend her from 
the aggressive vulgarity of this young bar- 
barian, to whom timidity was unknown and 
reverence a superstition. 

“A married lady,” Mrs. James Berkley held, 
“was the equal of anybody.” Old people were 
necessarily behind the times, and especially 
inferior to herself, as from the most “ad- 
vanced” part of the Union. 

What could be more natural, more praise- 
worthy, than that she should kindly endeavor 
to enlighten and improve her new relatives. 
Accordingly she lectured Mr. Selwyn on poli- 
tics and agriculture, and his wife on house- 


keeping and society; informing the one, with 
but little circumlocution, that he was narrow r - 
minded and rococo — the other that she was 
wasteful and dull. She even condescended 
to inquire into Janet’s studies and occupa- 
tions, censuring her books as old-fashioned, 
and her ways as “poky.” The Selwyns mar- 
velled and groaned over “poor dear James,” 
but bore all. “There never has been a family 
quarrel among us,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “and 
there never shall be if I can help it.” And so 
she soothed her husband, and kept the peace, 
but rejoiced greatly when, at the end of three 
months, the young couple moved to a house 
of their own/ The next summer they returned 
to the North, and, two days after Mr. Berkley 
had announced to his friends the birth of a 
daughter, came the further intelligence of the 
death of his wife. 

The good people were, if not grieved, at 
least much shocked. It had not been possi- 
ble to like Agnes while alive, but now that 
she was dead they remembered that she had 
been young, handsome and happy, and gave 
some sad, solemn thoughts to the young life 
cut short, speaking softly and kindly, “be- 
cause that they were thinking less upon the 
dead than upon death.” 

Mrs. Selwyn wrote again, a truly cordial 
and sympathetic letter this time, offering to 
take arid rear the child, as she had done her 
nephew himself, hinting as delicately as 
possible at the advantage of having his 
daughter brought up among his own people. 
Mr. Berkley was fully eooscious of this, but 
his wife’s mother had already claimed the 
child as hers by right; and he, glad to escape 
discussion, perhaps too, unconsciously glad 
to escape altogether from this episode of his 
life, agreed to leave it with her “for the pres- 
ent,” and, settling to pay her a handsome 
yearly sum for its support, returned home. 
Two years after he married his cousin, Janet 
Selwyn. And now the easy-going man was 
happy indeed. He loved his young wife with 
all his heart, and all for whose approval he 
cared smiled a “well-done” upon him. 

Fair and sweet lay his life before him: but 
in the midst of the calm came the storm, and 
in little more than a year James Berkley was 
the father of another daughter, and again a 
widower. 

Even his happy nature gave way under 
this new blow; for some months every sem- 
blance of peace left him. He could not en- 
dure • the sight of his baby or of the place 
where he had been so happy, and at last 
astonished his friends by suddenly announ- 
cing that he intended to give up planting, go 
to the city and engage in business. 

“Pray don’t ask me not to,” he said to his 
advisers when they attempted to dissuade 
him. “I should hate to refuse you, and the 
truth is I want people about me— I want a 
crowd. This solitude is frightful to me — I 
cannot bear it. Here, where she has been, it 
is so lonely without her.” 

They respected his grief and forbore. 

He went to the city and offered himself and 


ashurst; or the days that are not. 


5 


his capital to a friend of his who had very 
lately gone into business, and, after some 
hesitation, was accepted as a partner, on the 
solemn promise that he would never make 
any arrangement, conclude any bargain, or 
sign any paper without having first submitted 
it to his partner. “For you see, my dear J em,” 
said the latter, “that although you are a 
deuced sight cleverer fellow than I am, and 
will, if let alone, see the rights and wrongs 
fast enough, yet that dreadful habit of say- 
ing ‘yes,’ of yours, will ruin us both if you 
don’t bind yourself.” 

Mr. Berkley laughed, but assented, and the 
firm prospered; his partner supplied the ele- 
ment of firmness, he of suavity, and 
his ready perception and quick intelli- 
gence made him a really good busi- 
ness man. An instinct like that which 
leads the sick animal to the healing herb had 
surely led him to this occupation, for in a 
short time his easy temper resumed its sway, 
his cheerfulness returned, and his friends 
hardly remembered that “Jem Berkley” was 
a doubly widowed man. His little Janet, of 
course, remained with her grand-parents; he 
saw her frequently, and was extremely fond 
of her, but no idea of responsibility mingled 
with his caressing affection. 

And so time went by, and the only trace 
which his troubles had left on his bright facile 
nature seemed to be a resolve never again to 
marry. More than one fair damsel would 
have been willing to forgive the existence of 
the two children, and console him for the 
two wives; but the very instant that any one 
looked more than common kind, Mr. Berkley 
retreated, and betook himself to less danger- 
ous companionship. One day, however, when 
Janet was about twelve years old, this calm 
was suddenly disturbed. 


CHAPTER III. 

“Eow doth the little crocodile 
improve his shining tail, 

Acd pour the waters of the Nile 
On every golden scale ! 

“How cheerfully he seems to grin. 

How neatly spreads his claws, 

And welcomes little fishes in, 

With gently smiling jaws !” 

L Alice in Wonderland. 

Mr. Parkyns, sorting his letters, exclaimed: 
“ ‘James Berkley, Esq.,’ in a black border an 
inch and a half wide. That’s for you, Jim. 
What is the matter ?” as Mr. Berkley, tearing 
open and hastily glancing at the letter, 
dropped it with a grunt of what sounded 

more like vexation than grief. 

“My mother-in-law is" dead,” replied Mr. 
Berkley. 

“Mrs. Selwyn? Good Heavens! My dear 
fellow, you don’t say so?” for Mr. Parkyns 
knew well that Mrs. Selwyn was an altogether 
exceptional mother-in-law. 


“No, no, not my aunt — God forbid ! My 
other mother-in law. Don’t you know that 
I have two ?” 

“Oh, yes ! of course. I beg pardon, I’m 
sure, only for the moment, you see, I forgot.” 
Iu fact he had forgotten— had hardly ever 
heard of — her existence. 

“Very likely; yes, she is dead, poor old 
lady, and now the trouble is, what am I to do 
with the child ?” 

“The child” — striving vainly to remember 
something about it — “to be sure. What will 
you do ? How old is it ?” 

“Why, let me see, bless my soul, Parkyns, 
she must be nearly grown up — about six- 
teen ! what shall I do with a grown-up 
daughter?” 

Mr. Parkyns laughed aloud. 

“My dear Berkley, I beg your pardon 
again, but the idea is really absurd; however, 
I suppose that you had better bring her 
home and get your aunt to see to her. Who 
is she with now ?” 

“Now ? Oh, since her grandmother’s death, 
with her aunt, a younger sister of my poor 
wife, who, indeed, I rather fancy, has had 
the chief charge of her; at least I think the 
letters, as well as I remember, used, until she 
could write herself, to be written by an 
aunt— yes —‘Penelope Peacroft,’ that is the 
same name.” 

Long as he had known his friend and part- 
ner, Mr. Parkyns could not help some wonder 
at this “happy-go-lucky” way of arranging 
his daughter’s education, but he merely said : 

“And what does she say now ?” 

Mr. Berkley read aloud : “In my unpro- 
tected condition, I feel myself unable to con- 
tinue the precious charge, which (under my 
mother’s sheltering wing) has been so delight- 
ful to me, and I must re^gn my Agnes just 
when her developing graces of mind and body 
make it doubly painful to me to part with 
her. I must, therefore, request that you will 
come to receive, in person, the cherished 
charge — un— un — un — ” 

“Poor soul ! yes, I dare say she feels it hard, 
eh Parkyns ?” 

“ I dare say,” answered that gentleman 
drily. “Is she a young lady ?” 

“Miss Penelope— 1 don’t remember. No, 
of course not; about forty probably.” 

“Oh ! She writes with much composure. 
How long has her mother been dead ?” 

Mr. Berkley again had recourse to his 
letter : — “Inform you that my beloved 

mother breathed her last in the peaceful 
dawning of this day.” “The same day, you 
see.” 

“Yes, you will have to go on at once. I sup- 
pose. That business of Robinson’s,” &c. 

Mr. Berkley went on, and returned four 
months afterwards, with his third wife, the 
sister of his first ! 

“I must say that, for the sweetest and most 
amiable of men, your cousin James does in- 
flict more shocks upon his family than any 
one I ever heard of,” said Mrs. George Berk- 
ley, a fair and lively Bostonian, who had 


6 


ashurst; or the days that are not. 


lately come to infuse animation into the i 
somewhat too tranquil waters of D so- 

ciety. “Why were we not romantic, George?” 
When I think of the humdrum way in which 
we were married! It was almost as prosaic as 
being ‘asked’ in church.” 

“And as decent,” growled her husband. I 
should like to have seen your mother, aye, 
and you yourself, my lady, bad I dared to 
propose any such romantic tricks as Jem’s ! 
Once in a lifetime one can understand it; but 
now — why the fellow is near forty.” 

“ *'No fool like an old fool!’ Not that I call 
forty old, I am nearly thirty myself, and you 
know the Selwyns if consulted might have 
objected, and James would have been be- 
tween two fires. Even now he may have 
trouble; for if Mrs. James interferes with 
Janet, Mr. Selwyn will show fight.’ 

Mrs. George was right. The Selwyn s’ 
anxiety as to how this new marriage might 
affect Janet was great. Mr. Selwyn, indeed, 
treated the matter scornfully, and replied to 
his wife’s suggestions that their nephew — 
son-in-law — might choose to have both his 
daughters with him, with sovereign contempt. 

“Janet,” he said, “was his grandchild and 
heiress— belonged to him. No stepmother 
should touch her. James had another 
daughter already— might have twenty more 
for aught he cared. Janet was his.” 

Mrs. Selwyn could not feel so confident. 
She recalled bye-gone experiences and femi- 
nine love of power; sighed over her nephew’s t 
weakness of character, and acknowledged his j 
parental authority; doubted her own right to 
withhold the child should he demand her, 
and feared the worst. Meanwhile, being per- 
fectly honorable and upright, she carefully 
avoided saying a word that could preju- 
dice her granddaughter against her new rela- 
tives, and, on the contrary, spoke of her 
nephew’s long solitude, and how well it was 
that he should now have a home of his own, 
and his children with him. Janet apparently 
thought but little of the coming stepmother, 
but dwelt with delight on the sister, whose 
existence she had, in truth, hardly hitherto 
realized. Mr. Berkley, with constitutional 
avoidance of painful topics, had never men- 
tioned his first wife or her child to the 
daughter of his second, and the Selwyns, 
mistaking what was, in fact, an absence of 
deep feeling for an excess of it, had respected 
what they supposed to be a morbidly sensi- 
tive reserve, and, while telling Janet the little 
they knew of the first Mrs. Berkley and her 
child, had charged her never to speak to her 
papa of what would worry him. The little 
girl, occupied with her own amusements, had 
thought hardly at all about it until now, but 
now she drew a bright ideal image, and pre- 
pared to worship it with her whole warm, 
young heart. 

They came, and while Mrs. Selwyn was in- 
finitely relieved, Janet was equally disap- 
pointed; for Agnes proved to be totally unlike 
her ideal in everything save beauty, and so 
cold to her impulsive young adorer that 


Janet, who had laid herself and her posses- 
sions at her feet, was chilled to the heart. If 
the young girl offered ring or bracelet, work- 
box or sash, such as her grand-parents had 
lavished upon her, they were accepted with- 
out warmth, indeed, but still with evident 
satisfaction. But if she poured out the 
fancies of her youthful heart, told stories of 
her own short life or sought to know some- 
what of her sister’s, Agnes froze — called her 
“child” in a voice trying to aspiring thirteen; 
declined either to give or receive confidence, 
and, without absolute rudeness, raised such a 
barrier between herself and her sister, that 
Janet, pained and mortified, was forced to 
abandon her hope of a new and charming 
affection. 

All the confidence that Agnes repelled Mrs. 
Berkley eagerly invited. Nothing could be 
more conciliating, more eager to please, more 
tender to Janet, more deferential to the Sel- 
wyns than she. And Mrs. Selwyn, remember- 
ing the pert vulgarity and intolerable med- 
dling of the first Mrs. Berkley, was thankful 
to find her sister a well-looking and tolerably 
well-bred woman of forty, whose manners, if 
too elaborate for elegance, were at least in- 
offensive and mild. 

Mr. Berkley seemed content. His wife was 
a good manager, his house comfortable, his 
daughter handsome and lady-like, and if he 
were not much at home, and very silent when 
there, the first might be set down to the un- 
settled habits of his twelve years of widow- 
hood; the second to the well known effect of 
matrimony. 

Mrs. Seiwyn said that her new niece was a 
good little woman, who meant well. Mr. Selwyn 
that there was no harm in her, and although 
Mrs. Ralph Selwyn called her “shoppy” and 
Mrs. George Berkley declared that she had 
some trouble in suppressing “Please ma’am” 
at the beginning of her sentences, the general 
impression was in her favor; and hib friends 
said that “Jem Berkley had done better than 
might have been expected.” 

The sole exception to this way of thinking 
was Janet. 

Children are sometimes very keen-sighted, 
especially those who, brought up by very 
frank, honest-hearted people, are so accus- 
tomed to the clear sound ring of truth that 
they instinctively recognize the first jarring 
sound that tells of a flaw in integrity. And 
so Janet, with her honest young head and 
heart, tried her stepmother, and found her 
wanting in all which, to that uncompro- 
mising young damsel, constituted a lady. 
She seemed to look Mrs. Berkley through 
and through, with those clear, grey eyes of 
hers, and to herself she said, “She is a liar 
and the truth is not in her,” but to her 
grandmother she only said, “I do not like her 
as well as you do, grandmamma, for I don’t 
believe in all the pleasant things she says, 
especially about me. Agnes doesn’t like me, 
and shows it, and that makes me sorry, but 
s7ie, (Janet’s only name for her except when, 
if obliged, she said stiffly “mother” 


ashurst; or the days that are not. 


7 


instead of the Southern girl’s natural 
“mamma”) is always protesting that she 
loves me dearly, and that makes 
me sorrier still. I don’t think papa is happy 
either,’ she added with a sigh. ‘Last night I 
was alone with him for a minute — she never 
lets us be alone if she can help it — and he put 
his arm around me and said, ‘Janet, do you 
remember your mamma ?’ And then wlien 1 
cried, out, grandma, he said, ‘No, true, poor 
child you cannot, but you have heard about 
her, your pretty mamma, my own Jeannie — 
try to be like her, child.’ And then she came 
in, and he went out of the room, but I saw 
the tears in his eyes, and think she did, too, 

for she looked grandma, she will do us 

some harm yet.” 

“I trust not, my child, I trust not,” said the 
old lady, trembling. “And so James thinks 
of my Janet still — sometimes I think that he 
forgets everything. However, child, I really 
think her a good woman.” 

“I hope so, grandma, but I don’t think it.” 
Janet answered resolutely, and the conversa- 
tion ended. 

Things went on smoothly until Mr. and 
Mrs. Selwyn, having spent the summer in the 
city, w r ere preparing to return to the planta- 
tion for the winter — Janet of course expect- 
ing to go with them. 

The first cloud arose one day, when the 
Berkleys had been dining with the Selwyns. 
The whole family was sitting in the piazza, 
enjoying the mild purple beauty of the au- 
tumn afternoon, when Mrs. Berkley, turning 
to Janet, said, in her, gentlest tones : 

“My dear Janet, have you heard anything 
of this new music teacher who is so highly 
spoken of ? I am to see him to-morrow to 
engage him for Agnes, and suppose that I had 
better make an arrangement for you at the 
same time.” 

“For me !” said Janet, amazed. “Why you 
know that we go into the country next week ? 
It would not be worth while to lake a couple 
of lessons.” 

“ ‘We !’ my dear child. Who do you 
mean ?” 

Mrs. Selwyn interposed : 

“‘We,’ with Janet means her grandfather 
and myself, Penelope. She has never known 
plans distinct from ours.” 

“My dear auut, well do I know all your 
tender kindness to this dear child, but now—’ ’ 

“ ‘Kindness,’ ” said Mrs. Selwyn, drawing 
herself up a little, “one is not kind to one’s 
own .” 

“True, true, dear madam, but I mean that 
her father thinks” — . But here Mr. Berkley, 
suspecting mischief, sprang up, and asking 
his uncle eagerly “if those puppies were right 
pointers after all?” the two gentlemen, with 
true masculine cowardice, fled to the calmer 
precincts of the stable. 

“Mr. Berkley thinks,” his now untram- 
melled wife proceeded, “and I quite agree 
with him, that this dear girl is now of an age 
when education is the first necessity; and she 


is so backward, I may say so deficient in 
many points, that another winter in the coun- 
try would be most unfortunate.” 

Mrs. Selwyn could hardly believe her ears. 
Her Janet “deficient!” a winter spent with 
her “most unfortunate!” She could hardly 
control her indignation, but she managed to 
reply quietly: 

“Do not imagine that Janet’s winters are 
spent in idleness. Our clergyman, a highly 
educated man, gives her lessons regularly 
three times a week.” 

Mrs. Berkley deserved great credit for 
turning what was really a supercilious into a 
deprecating smile, as she answered : 

“But, dear Mrs. Selwyn, this gentleman, 
educated as he may be, can hardly be compe- 
tent to impart to a young lady those accom- 
plishments, without which she can hardly 
hope for success in society.” 

This upset Mrs. Selwyn’s temper utterly, 
and she answered sharply : 

“We have never been accustomed to strain 
after success in society. It has been a part of 
our birthright. The ends of education, I 
think, far different.” 

“Dear, dearest aunt,” in a frightened tone, 
“do not mistake me; my only wish is for our 
child’s welfare.” 

“Our child’s,” thought Mrs. Selwyn; but 
she was ashamed of having lost the serene 
dignity of years, and answered more gently : 

“I have expressed no doubt of it, Penelope, 
but Janet’s welfare has so long depended 
upon us that I was not prepared for this. It 
is a point on which her father must decide, 
and I must be very sure of his wishes before I 
can consent.” 

“My dear aunt, delicacy — ” 

“The carriage is at the door, my dear,” 
interrupted Mr. Berkley, calling from the 
foot of the steps, “and — and — there is a 
storm coming up, you had best make haste. 
No thank you, aunt, I can’t come in. Hurry, 
Agnes, don’t you see the clouds.” 

“Good-bye, my dear aunt,” (squeezing her 
hand tenderly.) “I am sure we agree in 
wishing only for her improvement. Good- 
bye, dearest Janet.” Then whispering, “I 
have the prettiest room for you. I am sure 
that you will have a charming time,” kissing 
her. But Janet drew back her cold cheek and 
said, “my room is next to grandmamma’s, 
thank you.” 

“Dear child ! How affectionate ! Good-bye, 
Mr. Selwyn; a most delightful day, I’m 
sure.” 

Mr. Berkley w r as appealed to by all parties, 
but as Mrs. George Berkley said, “what 
chance had the Selwyns, clumsy people, who 
told the truth and lost their tempers, against 
the smooth fibs and flatteries of Mrs. James ?” 

Mr. Berkley, of course, agreed with every 
one, but his wife had him oftenest and 
carried her point. From that time Janet’s 
visits to her grandparents were happy holi- 
days, few and far between. 


8 


ashurst; oe the days that aee not. 


CHAPTER IV. 

“Who shall find a virtuous woman ? * * * 

* * * She looketh well to the ways of her house- 
hold, and eateth not the bread of idleness ” 

IProverbs. 

We left Janet pouring her delight into her 
equally delighted grandfather’s ears, and the 
mutual congratulations were resumed the next 
day, while she accompanied the old gentleman 
on his accustomed morning rounds to stables, 
barn and sheepfold. But when he, prepa- 
ring to go further afield, would have ordered 
her horse for her to ride round the plantation 
with him, she demurred, reminding him of 
Herr Muller, and that she must go over to 
“Uncle Ralph’s” for her lesson. 

Somewhat unwillingly the old gentleman 
consented, and rode away grumbling that for a 
girl who would one day be the owner of a large 
estate it was quite as necessary to know her 
own place and people as the German irregu- 
lar verbs. 

Janet returned to the house in quest of her 
grandmother, but looked in vain in store- 
room, dairy and parlor. 

“Where is grandmamma?” she asked, im- 
patiently, at last, of the old servant, who was 
slowly polishing the already shiniDg brass of 
the dining-room fender and “dogs” to a yet 
more dazzling brightness. 

“Ole Miss in de close-room, deh see ’bout 
de summer does.” 

“Summer clothes,” said Janet, with a 
shiver, “Why Caesar, its February ! or at least 
the first of March !” 

“Yes missy, but de does aint gwine done 
make to-morrow day; an ole miss she no 
like for hurry: you nebber catch him people 
naked,” answered the old man triumphantly. 

“As you would certainly catch time, I’m 
afraid you think Caesar,” said Janet, laugh- 
ing, as she ran lightly up the long flights of 
broad, shallow stepped, black oak stairs that 
led to the high-pitched, cedar shingled gar- 
ret, in which the said clothes-room was situa- 
ted. Reaching the top she paused and looked 
round. Nearly the whole of the large roof 
was used as a wine-room, and on long 
shelves stood rows upon rows of bottles, in 
which the rich Madeira slowly changed 
from ruby to amber, and then to palest 
straw color. From the beams on one 
side hung rows of hams, for the curing 
of which Mrs. Selwyn was famous, and 
from one small closet exhaled a curious hay- 
like smell. Janet knew it well, and made a 
wry face as she snuffed it. It was the “yarb- 
room,” stocked with dried plants of every 
kind, from which drinks, febrifuges or plasters 
could be made — potions, which when sweet- 
ened with molasses, were as much sought by 
the negroes as they were dreaded by the 
white inhabitants of Ashurst; but Mrs. Sel- 


wyn believed in “ tisane ” as firmly as a French- 
woman could have done, and Janet had often 
in her childhood been dosed with orange- 
leaf or life-everlasting tea, or benne water 
from the fragrant closet. 

The eastern end of the garret was parti- 
tioned off, and formed the cloth room, in 
which Mrs. Selwyn now sat, holding counsel 
with an elderly maumer, an important-look- 
ing driver, and a dapper little mulatto tailor, 
whose spruce appearance and improved 
speech showed citytraining. 

The room, extending over the whole east 
wing of the house, was lighted by two pro- 
jecting dormer windows, set so high in the 
sloping roof that three steps led to each. 
One end of the room was filled with shelves, 
piled with the thick woollen cloth, called 
“Welsh plains,” with blue and brown home- 
spun, red flannel and blankets. The other 
sides were occupied with presses, chests and 
trunks, containing the hoards that insensibly 
collect in a house inhabited for many gene- 
rations by wealthy people. In one chest 
were the stiff brocades of Mr. Selwvn’s 
mother and grandmother; in another the 
blue and buff Revolutionary uniform of his 
father; in a third the plum colored velvet 
Court suit, lace ruffles and full bottomed wig 
of his grandfather, who had been a Colonial 
Governor. In a curious old wardrobe of 
almost black mahogany, with many little 
brass handled drawers, lay the soft, ciinging, 
India muslin robes which Mrs. Selwyn her- 
self had worn in her youth, with the little 
three inch waists which always excited Janet’s 
amazement, at any one over six years old 
having ever been able to get into them. 

At one press the young girl looked with 
reverential sadness, for she knew that it held 
the garments of her own “pretty mamma,” 
as she had been taught to call her, the silks 
and laces with which her fond parents had 
adorned their darling for her bridal, little 
thinking how soon they were to be exchanged 
for a shroud. Then, too, there were chests of 
papers, old letters, surveys of “Indian lands” 
and “unexplored territories” and wills, which 
would have rejoiced an antiquary, and made 
the fortune of an historical society. But for 
these Janet was too young to care, and no in- 
quiring spirit had ever penetrated to the 
Ashurst paper chests. Janet, indeed, was too 
familiar with all these things to pay them 
much attention now, when her head was full 
of her own plans, and after having shaken 
hands with the two old negroes, and acknowl- 
edged the tailor’s bow by a nod, she mounted 
the window steps and perched herself on the 
highest, while driver and nurse ejaculated in 
chorus, “Kye, missy grow fine, same like he 
ma !” 

Mrs. Selwyn was too much occupied to heed 
her granddaughter. 

The driver held in his hand a stick on which 
were many notches of various sizes; these 
were to signify how many of the men under 
his charge were large, how many middle, and 
how many small-sized, and he and his mis- 


ashurst; or the days that are not. 


9 


tress were both endeavoring to impress upon 
the tailor the advantage of making the coats 
with wide fronts and roomy armholes, while 
that snip who had served his apprenticeship 
to a city tailor and thought he knew far more 
than either of his instructors, talked of rules 
and measures and slopes in a superior man- 
ner. At length, however, his arrangements 
were made. The bales of light woollen stuff 
were unrolled, measured and cut, buttons, 
thread and needles were provided, and then 
the seamstress had her turn for the women’s 
clothes of striped blue homespun — clothes, 
which when cut, each woman was expected to 
make for herself, helped if needs were by the 
seamstress and her girls; only for the new 
born babies Mrs. Selwyn provided carefully 
made garments, not trusting their comfort to 
their mothers’ clumsy fingers. 

Now, if Janet had been a thoughtful young 
person, she would as she sat on her step have 
noticed how much method* and arrangement 
there was in all this, and have wondered at 
the quiet, easy way in which this calm old 
lady was ordering and providing, months be- 
forehand, for the wants of three hundred peo- 
ple; but Janet was, as we said, too used to it 
to be struck by the administrative faculty 
displayed, and only wished that Daddy Zeno 
and Mom Ally (Anglice, Minerva) would hurry, 
and let her make her request. At length, 
however, the clothes business was finished, 
and before the plantation nurse succeeded 
with her audience, J anet struck in. 

“Dear grandma, I am going over to Buck- 
stone for my lessons, and please let me stay 
to-morrow; it will be Saturday, you know, 
and Herr Muller will have time to play for 
me in the morning, and we shall have a dance 
at night.” 

“A dance at night,” echoed Mrs. Selwyn. 
“Why then when will you come back ?” 

“On Sunday, grandma; I can meet you at 
church and come home. Don’t you think 
that we had better fix regular days for my 
going to Uncle Ralph’s, for since she lets me 
stay I must be honest and work, you know. 
Tuesdays and Fridays I think will be best.” 

“Very well, my pet, if you like it; and you 
can stay this week, only next Friday you 
must briDg the Buckstone girls home with 
you, and the boys can come over on Satur- 
day.” 

“That’s my own grannie,” said Janet, 
kissing her. “Any commands for Aunt Caro- 
line?’ 1 

“No— only— yes, Cupid brought in two fine 
turkeys this morning, you can take one over, 
and a leg of that lamb, (they have very few 
sheep at Buckstone,) and—” 

“Mercy, grandma,” Janet broke in laugh- 
ing.” You know Zack will have my valise 
and books, and there are limits to even Dum- 
ple’s carrying powers, don’t give him any- 
thing more.” 

“Well, well, go and put on your habit,” 
said the grandmother, as gathering up her 
keys, she prepared to descend to her well- 
stocked storeroom. 

2 


Half an hour later, Janet, mounted on her 
pretty highbred mare, Queen Mab,was canter- 
ing along a shady country road, followed by 
a servant with a small valise strapped behind 
his saddle, a large wild turkey tied by the 
legs hanging at his left side and a basket of 
fresh butter on his right arm — the young lady 
herself, in mercy to his over-loaded condi- 
tion, having hung the leather satchel con- 
taining her books on her own pommel. Janet 
went her way gaily, but her squire soon found 
something wrong with his steed, which was 
not the steady going Dumple, but a spirited 
young horse which the coachman had ordered 
him to take out for exercise. Embarrassed 
with his basket, and especially with the tur- 
key, which thumped uncomfortably, as he 
galloped his horse to keep up with Queen 
Mab, Zack did not at first venture to dis- 
mount, but finding the gait become worse and 
worse, he at last reined up and found that one 
shoe was so loose that it rattled on the hoof, 
while it was at the same time too tight to be 
pulled off. Zack lifted up his voice and 
houted- 

“Miss Janet ! oh, Miss Janet ! Come back. 
Robin Hood da gwine lame, an’ him can’t go 
fast no mo’.” 

“What is the matter !” asked Janet, com- 
ing back. Zack explained. The risk to the 
horse increased with every step that it took. 
“Massa” would be “firy mad” if any harm 
came to it, and he (Zack) knew not what 
to do. 

Janet decided instantly. 

Zack must get dow r n and lead Ro6in Hood 
home at a walk, while she herself went on 
alone to Buckstone, and he must bring over 
her things on another horse as soon as pos- 
sible. 

Zack demurred. His young mistress had 
been his especial charge on horseback when- 
ever it did not suit her grandfather to ac- 
company her ever since he had led the pony 
on which, at five years old, she had taken her 
first ride, and to leave her thus alone in the 
woods was to him a monstrous idea. He en- 
treated her to return home also. 

Janet was positive. “What in the world 
should harm her ? She knew everybody, 
black and white, in the neighborhood, and as 
for the Queen, she could manage her any 
day;” and the young sovereign rode off re- 
peating the order: “Get off, and lead him 
every step of the way home.” An order 
which Zack obeyed negro fashion by dis- 
mounting when he came in sight of the 
Ashurst gates. 


CHAPTER V. 

“Standing with reluctant feet 
Where the brook and river meet, 

’Twixt womanhood and childhood sweet.” 

L Longfellow . 

Janet, enjoying the adventure of being for 
once an “unprotected female,” rode safely on 
until she reached a wide shallow stream 


10 


ASHURST; OR THE DAYS THAT ARE ]S t OT. 


which crossed the road. Here Queen Mab 
stopped to drink, but finding the water 
muddy stepped aside from the usual track, to 
a deeper, clearer pool. The girl looked round 
enjoying the first faint signs of spring, and 
repeated aloud, 

“The bud is in the bough, and the leaf is in the bud, 
And earth’s beginning now in her veins to feel — ” 

when she broke off, exclaiming : “Oh, there 
is that Dionea, which dear old Muller has 
been raving about ! How early for it! Now, 

I shall have the pleasure of presenting a 
really valuable specimen for his beloved 
Hortus siccus.” 

So saying she turned her horse, and forced 
it to go some yards along the bed of the 
stream, to where she saw the coveted plant 
growing in the swampy ground on the margin. 
The water became deeper, and Mab stepped 
cautiously, but her mistress drawing up her 
knees, and twisting her skirt, with the skill 
of a country rider, kept on until within reach 
of the Dionea, and then making the long lash 
of her whip into a loop, she threw it lasso 
like over the head of the plant, intending 
with a jerk to break its brittle stem and 
draw it to her. Just, however, as with an 
angler’s art, she had thrown her cord to the 
exact spot, her mare started violently to one 
side with a bound which would have un- 
seated most people, and plunging backwards 
into water nearly to its shoulder, stood 
trembling in every limb. Janet kept her seat, 
but lost her whip, the stem, stouter than she 
imagined, having jerked it from her hand. 
Greatly amazed she strove to coax the trem- 
bling mare forward; but hand and voice were 
alike Useless; the terrified creature stood with 
its forefeet stretched and braced, its neck 
stiff and eyes intently staring. 

Janet now perceived a large snake, which, 
coiled around a slight sapling on the other 
side of the stream, was alternately darting j 
and withdrawing its head and forked, blood- 
red tongue as the reed swayed back and forth. ! 
The mare, fascinated and terrified, was deaf ! 
to Janet’s voice, and although she struck with | 
hand and heel, stood still, trembling. “Oh 
Queeny,” she cried at last, “don’t be such a 
goose ! You a country horse to be so afraid ! i 
It’s only a water moccasin ! Come Mab, my 
pet, come !” But Mab was deaf to blandish- 
ments and callous to blows, and Janet’s next 
expedient of kneeling on her saddle and try- 
ing to snatch a switch from the trees over- 
head failed, for the boughs were too high for 
her to reach. In attempting this, too, she ran 
great risk of slipping off into the water, where, 
as she sagely bethought herself, it was quite 
possible that some of the snake’s family might 
be concealed. 

Reseating herself, she resumed her en- 
deavors and wished for Zack; but now to her j 
great joy she heard horse hoofs approaching, 
and in another moment saw a horseman, who 
would have crossed at the road without seeing 
her, so far down the stream had her indiscreet 


botanical zeal carried her, had she not cried 
loudly: 

“Here ! here ! help! come this way'please.” 

The rider turned, and beholding to his 
amazement a young lady, a few yards off, up 
to her saddle girths in water, rode up ex- 
claiming: 

“What is the matter ? What are'you doing 
down there ?” 

“I am doing nothing at all,” cried Janet, in 
answer. “I can’t get my horse to move. 
Don’t you see that she is afraid of that snake?” 
pointing. 

“I see, I see,” answered the new-comer, 
and turning his own horse’s head away from 
the threatening reptile, he came close to 
Queen Mab, and laid one hand on her bridle, 
passing the other several times over the eyes 
of the trembling creature, which made no 
resistance, and relaxed its stare of horror. 

“I will lead her out,” said the stranger, 
“and do you pat and speak to her as I move 
off; this is a case of fascination.” 

They did as he said, and Mab reassured ap- 
parently by the presence of one of her own 
species, pressed close to his horse’s side, and 
although still trembling was no longer restive. 

The stranger continued to hold the rein and 
to speak soothingly to the mare until they had 
left the water and turned a bend iu the road 
which shut it entirely from sight, then loosen- 
I ing Ids hold he looked anxiously at the young 
i gdd, asking: 

“And you, are you hurt, wet or 
frightened?” 

“A little wet, thank you,” she 
answered smiling, (she was soaked to the 
waist,) “but that will do no harm. No, 
neither of us is at all hurt, and I can’t tell 
why Mab should have been so frightened, for 
she must have seen snakes often before.” 

“Certainly, but it seems to be only occa- 
sionally that they exercise this power of fasci- 
nation. I never knew of it before — with so 
large an animal, and I don’t think that any 
one understands much about it. Will your 
horse stand fire ?” 

“Like a rock,” answered the girl proudly. 
“You can shoot from her back.” 

“Mice will not, as I know to my cost, or 
rather,” (correcting himself gallantly) “to 
my gain, since for that reason I am here. 
Would you do me the favor to hold him a mo- 
ment for me ?’’ dismounting as he spoke, 
and unslinging a gun which she then for the 
first time noticed hung across his shoulders. 
Leaving her, he returned towards the stream, 
and in a minute she heard the sharp crack of 
a rifle. The next she heard her new friend 
call: 

“Turn your head this way, please, but 
don’t turn your mare.” 

She looked back and saw him standing 
holding the snake, dead, hanging across a 
stick. 

“Shot dead,” he cried triumphantly. 
“3weet is revenge. Don’t you enjoy the 
sight of your enemy ?” 

“I’m afraid I do,” she answered, hesitating- 


ashurst; or the days that are not. 


11 


]y, “for although I try not, 1 do hate snakes, 
not only this one, but all; but of course I 
know it is wrong.” 

“Wrong,” said he, tossing the reptile into 
the bushes and remounting. “Why do you 
think it wrong ?” 

“Grandmamma,” said the girl simply, 
“says it is wrong to hate any of these dumb 
creatures. Of course, we can’t love all 
alike, but she does not like me to hate any, 
for she thinks them all God’s work and inno- 
cent of harm; but these are to me horrible, 
and like all base things — meanness, falsehood, 
hypocrisy !” 

“No,” answered the young man gloomily: 
“your grandmother is right. These poor beasts 
do not deserve hate; it must be kept for man. 
He is the type of those vices.” 

Janet looked startled, and, her companion 
recovering himself, smiled, saying, “Dis- 
agreeable philosophy ! And now may I in- 
quire where you were going all alone when 
you got into his snakeship’s pond ? and if it 
is usual that a young lady in these parts 

‘Like a book bosomed priest should ride ?’ ” 

pointing to the satchel, which, to save it from 
the water, Janet had hung round her neck. 

The question, the look, the tone, suddenly 
reminded Janet that she was a young lady, 
and that, moreover, her new friend was a 
young man whom she had never seen in her 
life before, and to whom she had been chat- 
tering in the frankness of her heart, as she 
would have done to one of her cousins. A 
rush of that uncomfortable self-consciousness 
which makes the misery of early girlhood, 
and which Janet had hardly yet known, 
seized her; she turned crimson, her whole 
manner changed, and she said hesitatingly : 

“I am not a young lady, at least — I mean — I 
, am going to my uncle’s to school; these are my 
books which I had to take from the pommel 
to keep them dry,” restoring the bag to its 
place as she spoke. “There was a plant down 
the stream which I wanted to get, so I went 
in after it, and then Mab got frightened, and 
I dropped my whip, and—” 

The young man saw the blush and the sud- 
den shyness, and was vexed with himself for j 
having provoked it; he answered gently : 

“You dropped your whip ? Why did you 
not tell me ? I would have got it for you. ” 

“Oh, no !” she said, shuddering. “You 
could not; the water was'deep, and there may 
be more snakes.” 

“I went in pretty deep to get a good aim at 
this one,” he answered, looking down; and 
she then noticed for the first time that he 
had evidently been waist deep in water. This 
still increased her misery, for she thought j 
that he had done it on her account. 

“Oh, how wet you are !” she cried piteously, 
quite forgetting that she herself was in al 
most as bad a plight. “You must go home ' 
at once and get dry things.” 

“That is just what I can’t do, unless, in- j 
deed, you can help me,” he said, laughing. 
“You know I told you that my horse would i 


not stand fire. I did not kno\? it, and at- 
tempted to shoot from the saddle this morn- 
ing. She sent me flying over her head iD a 
second, and then ran away, and, before I 
could catch her again, the other men had 
gone off, and now I haven’t the least idea of 
the road. Perhaps you can tell me how far 
we are from the Elms, Mr. Vincent’s place ?” 

“Very near, indeed; if you will come down 
this crossroad you will see the corner of his 
fence.” She turned down the crossroad as 
she spoke, and then, pointing to a distant 
fence, added: “Follow the fence for half a 
mile in that direction, and you will come to his 
gate.” 

“But I mean to see you safe home, or 
wherever you are going, first,” he said. “In- 
deed, you must allow me, and”— 

“No, no!” said Janet hurriedly. “No, I 
can’t, indeed. I had a great deal rather go 
alone,” with an accent of the sincerest truth. 
“I am not far from Buckstone, now, and 
donb, want you at all. Do, pray sir, go on to 
the Elms at once. Thank you, very much, 
and good-bye.” 

It was the stranger’s turn to flush now; he 
looked hurt, but only answered: “If you in- 
sist,” halted his horse and raised his hunting 
cap. She bowed, and turned her horse’s 
head, then, ashamed of her own confusion, 
said to herself: “Oh, Janet ! what an un- 
mannerly little fool you are,” and turning 
back again said, with a pretty youthful 
dignity: 

“You must go home now, sir, because you 
are so wet, but I hope that I shall see you 
again. I am Miss Berkley, and my grand- 
father, Mr. Selwyn, will wish to thank you 
for helping me to-day. Will you tell me your 
name ?” 

He bowed’ low, and answered, “My name is 
Hugh Carlton, Miss Berkley, and I am stay- 
ing here with my cousin, Mr. Vincent; but I 
beg that you will say no more of the slight 
service which I have done to-day.” 

“Thank you again,” she answered, bending 
her head, and then finally rode away. 

Hugh Carlton stood looking after her. 
“Now 1 wonder,” said he to himself, “which 
is the real person ? The school-boy that I 
pulled out of the water, or the miss in her 
teens that blushed so awfully, or the princess 
that bade me that stately adieu? They’re 
‘wondrous pretty’ all of them. I think I like 
the first best, but I mean to see those clear 
grey eyes again, and I’ll try a plunge at that 
whip to-morrow.” 

The noise of Queen Mab’s feet brought a 
crowd of eager boys and girls to the Buck- 
stone porch. 

“Here is Janet come at last,” cried one. 

“What makes you so late?” asked another. 

“And you are all muddy and wet.” 

“Where’s Zack?” 

“Mab is all in a foam” — this last from a 
boy. 

“Hush children, don’t make such a noise!” 
said a pleasant looking, middle aged lady, 
who came forward. 


12 


ashurst; or tiie days that are not. 


“Why Janet, my child, you are really 
soaked !” 

“Only my habit, Aunt Carry. I kept up my 
feet. Somebody must lend me a frock until 
Zack comes. Yes — I’ve had an adventure.’ 7 

“An adventure between Ashurst and Buck- 
stone !” cried Allan Selwyn, her eldest cousin. 
“Tell it Jeannie ! What is it?” as they led 
her into the hall. 

“Tell it.” echoed the party. 

“Yes, I have indeed— been drowned — al- 
most, in Vincent’s Creek— and attacked by a 
dragon, and rescued by a knight in chain 
mail, with a sword by his side, mounted on a 
superb charger ! Afterwards he slew the 
dragon and laid its body at my feet. Isn’t 
that an adventure? Am I not anew Sabrina ? 
Is not my hero a St. George ?” 

“A dragon, Janet ?” said little Sophy Sel- 
wyn, in an awe-struck voice. “A true-for-trub 
dragon !” 

“Well, you might call it a snake.” 

“There’s hardly water enough in Vincent’s 
Creek to drown a cat,” said Allan Selwyn 
contemptuously, “nor a snake in the country 
that could kill anything bigger than a blue- 
jay. If the knight matches the rest of the 
story, Janet, he is probably little Tom John- 
son on his donkey.” 

“Allan does not like any one but himself to 
be Janet’s knight,” whispered little Sophy to 
her sister Lucy, who hushed her demurely 
and turned to listen to the more sober ac 
count which Janet was giving her mother. 

“Hugh Carlton and a cousin of Mr. Vin- 
cent’s,” repeated Mrs. Selwyn; “yes, I re- 
member that an aunt of Mr. Vincent’s mar- 
ried in Maryland, and Carlton is a Maryland 
name. I daresay that this is her son.” 

“Mr. Vincent’s aunt’s son ? Oh no, Aunt 
Carry. A young man, and very handsome.” 

“Grandson, perhaps,” answered her aunt, 
laughing. “Go and put on a dry frock, 
you mischief. What do you know of very 
handsome ?” 

Mr. Ralph Selwyn, the half-brother of Ja- 
net’s grandfather, and younger than he by 
twenty years, was a little clearer in his remi- 
niscences than his wife. He remembered that 
Miss Vincent had married a Carlton, and was 
quite sure that this youth must belong to a 
third generation. “But I will find out to- 
morrow, Janet,” he concluded, “for I will 
ride over to Vincent’s and see this hero of 
yours.” 

“Just as if anybody couldn’t have led the 
Queen out of a ditch,” muttered Allan sulk- 
ily. 


CHAPTER VI. 

“And now I see with eye serene 
The ve y pulse of the machine. 

A being breathing thoughtful breath; 

A traveller betwixt life and death.'” 

[ Wordsworth. 

The next day, however, proved so hope- 
lessly rainy that Mr. Selwyn was obliged to 


forego his courteous intention. All out-door 
plans were necessarily abandoned, and Janet, 
to Herr Muller’s infinite delight, spent the 
whole morning with him, Saturday though it 
were, reading Schiller, practicing Beethoven, 
and lastly going patiently over page after 
page of the old man’s beloved herbal.^ 

“ Ach, frdulein /” he exclaimed at last, “if 
I had you always how I should enwise you ! 
It is you that have the light-befilled, heart- 
awakened soul ! Yes. frdulein y your cousins, 
Frdulein Lucie and Frdulein Annie, they too 
are good and praise-befitting. But they learn— 
Ach y Himmel /— they learn their lesson; and it 
is a lesson. But thou, my little lady, thou 
learnest, and it is thine; thou learnest with 
thy spirit. Thou wentest in great waters to 
get the Dionea for the old man’s book.” 

“Oh, no, indeed, Herr; it was only a little 
branch,” Janet hastened to correct. But the 
old man went on enthusiastically. 

“You went in great waters to give him 
pleasure, thou dear one ! See my little lady, 
in thy life it will be always so. Much trouble 
thou shalt have, for thou wilt bear it for thy 
friends, but much joy shall be thine for thou 
art simpaticdy yes s impatica thou art.” 

“Herr Muller,” said Lucy, putting her laugh- 
ing face, in at the door. “We cannot have 
you turning Janet’s head; when you and she 
get together you go into the clouds. Do come 
into the big hall and play for us. Mamma 
says that we can have a Virginia reel before 
dinner just for exercise.” 

“What was the old Herr saying to you ?” 
said Allan, as they stood together at the foot 
of the dance, while the others were having 
their turn. “You look so grave and scared.” 

“Scared ! No,” said Janet rousing herself. 
“I was only thinking. He was telling my 
fortune, I believe. Promising me great sor- 
row and great joy.” 

“Well, most people do have good and bad 
luck at times, but why you ?” 

“He says great sorrow and great joy, for 
thou wilt bear them for thy friends, because 
thou art sirnpatica .” 

“Sim— what?” 

“ Sirnpatica . It’s Italian, and means sympa- 
thizing — doesn’t your Latin show you that ? 
And I was just wondering if I am a very sym- 
pathizing person, for I don’t think I am.” 

“Well, when Mr. Cannons puts his head 
a-one side, and squeezes their bauds, and says 
‘Ah my dear Christian friends,’ all the old 
ladies say, ‘so sympathizing, my dear.’ I 
hope youdon’t mean to go in for that sort of 
thing.” 

“I hope not,” said Janet, laughing hear- 
tily, “and I am sure Herr Muller wouldn’t 
like to have Mr. Cannons squeezing his hand. 
But he is so pleased at my having risked a 
ducking for his dear herbal, (it is a shame that 
none of you children will care about it,) that 
he tells me all sorts of fine things, and winds 
up with this “thou art sirnpatica! After all I 
did it because I was interested in the flower, 
and to please myself just as much as to please 
him.” 


ashurst; or tiie days that are not. 


13 


“Yes — ” said Allan slowly, “but I think I 
see what he is driving at. You do get so in- 
terested about other people’s business. Why 
if I have a good hunt it makes you .lolly, and 
when we all had the mumps I declare I be- 
lieve it hurt you as much as me.” 

“That was because I had had it already, 
and remembered the pain. And of course it 
is nice for you to have a good hunt— it makes 
it so pleasant.” 

“People can always find a reason, if they 
want one,” answered Allan philosophically, 
“but its true. You are like that verse in 
Ivry, 

‘Mournful in our ills and joyous in our joy;” 

and the Herr cares more for you than for all 
of us put together.” 

“Well, if I am, Rochelle, I’ll make a rural 
crown, (out of pasteboard,) and come down to 
tea in it. To be compared to a whole city ! 
Come along Allan, its our turn.” 

And off they flew, backwards and forwards, 
up and down the middle, turning and twist- 
ing, bounding and sliding, in that gayest of 
old fashioned dances. The old man the while, 
with his violin tucked under his chin and 
playiDg the blithest tunes, gazed at the dan- 
cers over his spectacles. What was he think- 
ing of I wonder, as the bow slid over the 
strings, and the airs sounded in his ears, to 
which he had danced, in years gone by in the 
far off fatherland ? Did he see the long gal- 
lopades of the reel, and hear the American 
voices round him? Or were the forms before 
him the soft plump figures of the German 
madchen, in the smooth whirl of the waltz, 
and were the tones those of the beloved 
tongue ? Something of both, I fancy, for as 
he heard the familiar notes and saw the bright- 
faced boy talking eagerly to the girl at his 
side, and caught his upward confiding glance, 
the old man shut his eyes and there came 
before him a vision of his own youth. 

“And he thought of the days that were long 
since by, 

When his limbs were strong and his courage was 
high.” 

Of that last night when he, too, had stood, 
an eager boy of twenty, by a fair cousin, 
loved and loving. He remembered how they 
had swung round and round in that long, 
smooth, unending waltz, which none but 
Germans can accomplish; how they had parted 
with vows and tears, and she had given him 
one of her long yellow tresses, for the next 
day he and his fellow-students were to march 
out to strike one last, desperate blow for free- 
dom against what then seemed the invincible 
power of Napoleon. Then came before his 
eyes the tumult of the day, the awful night, 
lying wounded and stark in the snow, with 
the corpses around him. Then long months 
of fever and pain in the French hospital, and 
then, worst of all, the return home— the amaze- 
ment, rather than joy, of his reception, and 
the absence of the one louged-for welcome. 
The little mound in the church-yard, with the 


low cross and the wreath on it. They had 
thought him dead, and she had died. Poor 
boy ! his love was dead, his home cold, his 
country enslaved, and he wandered forth 
into the world with but one resolve — never to 
go back. After years of travel, gathering 
lore, but little gear in every quarter of the 
globe, fate had led him here to this kindly, 
merry Southern home, where they liked him 
well and treated him with all respect, but 
still did not love him until Janet came. She, 
with her fine nature, her faculty of entering 
into the feelings of those about her, saw at 
once the loneliness and lovingness of the 
man, the tender, warm heart under the 
rugged exterior, and in a few months’ time 
was, as Allan truly said, dearer to him than 
the whole tribe of Selwyns, his pupils for 
three years. 

All this flashed through his brain, while his 
fingers mechanically played on, and when at 
last he opened his eyes, and looking down 
the long hall, saw Janet looking at him, and 
smiling as she met his glance, he exclaimed 
involuntarily: 

“Dear God ! She is like CUirchen ! I never 
saw it before.” 

In truth it was not so. Clarchen had had 
the soft plump roundness, the pale yellow 
hair, the white skin, the sweet blue eyes of 
Germany. Janet, in her undeveloped girl- 
hood, was slight and tall as the young sap- 
ling that may yet make a stately tree; her 
skill was fair and transparent, but lacked the 
snowy Teutonic whiteness; her hair had no 
tinge of yellow, but was softest Saxon brown. 
Her eyes were the purest, clearest gray, with 
no tint of blue, but with long lashes, many 
shades darker than her hair, which threw into 
them such dark shadows, that in shade or in 
grief they looked black too, while in sunshine 
or in joy they sparkled diamond-gray. But 
after fifty years even the most faithful of 
lovers has but a dim memory of features and 
coloring, while the expression, the word of 
the soul speaking through the eyes — that is re- 
membered; and it was the affectionate, seeking 
look — a look such as he had not met in all 
these fifty years— which deceived the old 
man; for Janet was thinking, “He is playing 
for us to give us pleasure, and we do nothing 
for him — he is a stranger in everything — I 
wonder if he is thinking of his own people.” 

Strange power of sympathy ! granted to 
few, and when granted'but a doubtful good ! 
for whether is it better to feel not for, butwith 
others, and thus share the joys and the woes 
of many, or to bear alone, enjoy alone, one’s 
own hap ? Who can answer ? — Of all gifts 
surely the most Godlike — but the only 
human God was the man of many sorrows. 

And so the old man thought her like his 
dead love, and as he saw the gay boy seize 
her hand and lead her through the dance, he 
thought to himself : “Poor young things ! 
The dear God grant they may be happy ! He 
is a good boy, yet not worthy of my fraulein. 
But if she thinks so ! Heaven be praised, 
their lot is in a land of peace, where are no 


14 


asiiurst; or the days that are yot. 


wars or bloodshed.” Ah ! if the prophetic 
vision had been granted to the good Doctor 
what would he not have seen ! Allan Selwyn 
lying on his face, dead, on the hills of Get- 
tysburg, with the broken sword still clenched 
in his stiffening hand; and Janet, a pale, stern 
woman, with her children clinging to her 
knees, looking in the wintry night at the 
ruins of her burning home. Rut these days 
of horror were still far off. No shadow of the 
war cloud yet darkened the air, and long ere 
it gathered the quiet pines were waving their 
green tops over the stranger’s grave in the 
churchyard of his adopted home. 


CHAPTER Vi I. 

"La Beyne le malty 

Sunday morning rose clear and bright. The 
whole Buckstone household was stirring be- 
times, for, as Mrs. Selwyn said, it was no easy 
matter to get so many children, servants and 
horses fed and dressed in time to drive nine 
miles before half-past 10 o’clock. 

“Another piece of omelette, if you please 
Uncle Ralph,” said Janet, holding out her 
plate. “I am desperately hungry and must 
make haste to start in time for church. Steady 
is so slow ! Whip I never so hard, nothing 
can make him go over four miles an hour.” 

“Wliat have you got to do with Steady ?” 
asked her uncle. “Why do you not ride 
Mab ?” 

“I promised the Herr last night to drive 
him. Quite made up my mind,” she added 
with a positive little nod, as an outcry arose 
from the younger part of the family. “Yes, 
quite. I really wish it. You should have 
heard the music that he was playing for me 
last night in the book-room before tea. Such 
solemn, magnificent, beautiful church music! 
1 have set my heart upon getting him to 
church to-day in the right humor to play it 
there, aud you know, if he goes with one of 
you boys he is capable of anything, from a jig 
to Old Hundred.” 

“It’s a shame, Janet,” cried Lucy. “You 
let the Herr eat you up. What does it signify 
now he plays ? Let one of the boys drive 
him. Only think what a delightful ride we 
shall have.” 

“My dear child, you must not think of it,” 
said Mrs. Selwyn. “If tbe boys worry him 
in the buggy, I will ask him to go in the car- 
riage with me.” 

Janet privately wondered if her aunt im- 
agined, that to be shut up in a carriage with 
four small children, kicking his shins and 
plunging over his knees, was soothing to an 
irritable musician, but she only declared that 
she very much preferred her own plans, and 
rose to go, undeterred by Annie’s suggestion 
that her habit would look very queer in the 
buggy. 


“I don’t mind,” she said. “Tom says that 
he can ride on my saddle, and 1 must go in 
my habit, for there will be nobody to take 
Mab home from church if I don’t; aud now 
we must be off.” 

Before going, however, she said a word to 
Allan on the piazza, imperiously. 

“Bee here, Allan,” she began, autocrati- 
cally, “you must drive Herr Muller home 
from church; yes you must. I can’t have 
him worried and fretted by Tom or Jack just 
when he has been made happy and peaceful 
in church. Let him have one whole pleasant 
day, do, like a dear good fellow.” 

“Tbe boys are a torment, but why the deuce 
can’t Lucy or Annie drive him home? I 
meant to ride back to A.shurst with you and 
dine. 1 haven’t seen my uncle for a fort- 
night,” said Allan, insinuatingly. 

“Lucy aud Audrj will have their heads so 
full of the Miss Vincents’ new bonnets that 
there won’t be a word of sense to be got out of 
them,” replied the tyrant. “l r ou must do it, 
Allan, for you are the only one that I can 
t/ust, and I know that if you promise, you 
will be good.” 

“And you know that if you ask me I have 
to promise,” grumbled the boy; “but it’s hard 
lines on a fellow, Janet, to give up a whole 
Bud day like that.” 

“Hard lines, Allan,” she said, looking up 
! into his face with sweet, beseeching eyes, 

| and then glancing round at the bright, sunny 
j lawn before them; “hard lines to give ahold 
i man a little pleasure ? Look how delightful 
| everything is to us, because it is our country, 
and we are together, and, then, think how 
lonely, how far from his own people he is ! 
I wish that we could make him feel a little 
j more as if he were one of us, and not just ‘a 
I stranger and a sojourner,’ for, indeed, Allan, 
i the lines have fallen to us in pleasant 
| places !” 

“J’m a beast!” said Allan, penitently, 

| “and I’ll do it, Jeannie, and with a good 
! grace, for your sake.” 

“¥ou are my good boy, and you’ll do it for 
j goodness’ sake,” she said, giving him an en- 
|| couraging pat on the arm. “And next Friday 
you are to come to Ashurst, and stay over 
Sunday. Yes, really, for I a^ked Aunt Carry, 
and she said yes J” 

Herr Muller and Janet drove happily along, 
but, as she had predicted, they were soon 
passed by the others, notwithstanding their 
early start. First by the gay crew of riders, 
mounted for the most part on small, shaggy 
ponies — “marsh taekies” — among which the 
high-bred Queen Mab looked like a princess 
among peasants, and next by the large family 
carriage, in those days yclept “arockawav.” 
In this roomy vehicle were stored away Mrs. 
$elwyn, a maumer and four smail children, 
and Mr. Selwyn drove himself, with his 
coachman on the box beside him. Allan 
checked his horse by the side of the buggy, 
and seemed inclined to attach himself to it; 
but this formed no part of Janet’s programme, 
i and she gave a sign which made the young 


ashurst; or the days that are not. 


15 


gentleman spur on to overtake his sisters’ j 
ponies. 

Herr Muller looked after the riders with 
some apprehension, for Tom, a grinning 
urchin of ten, was playing all sorts of tricks 
on his side-saddle. “If he his neck should 
break, you will yourself repent, fraiilem he 
remarked. 

“His neck !” said Janet, in astonishment. 
“Dear Herr, you canH break a boy’s neck! 
He is much more likely to hurt Mab’s back, 
rocking about as he is doiug. However, the 
saddle is well stuffed, and I don’t think he 
can do much harm.” 

At last they arrived at the church, later, 
indeed, than most of the congregation, but 
still in time for the Doctor to arrange 
his music before the service began, and for 
Janet to pounce upon her grandfather, and 
drawing him from the group of old gentlemen, 
with whom he was discussing cotton and poli- 
tics, give him a hurried account of her adven- 
ture, and ask him to be introduced to the 
hero of it, and thank him properly; “for you 
see, grandpapa, I am afraid that I was rather 
rude.” 

“I don’t understand,” said the old gentle- 
man, testily. “What is all this story about 
Vincent’s Creek and a snake? Surely you’re 
not afraid of snakes, child ! and what the 
deuce were you doing in a pond, besides ?” 

“I can’t explain any more now, grand- 
papa,” said Janet, almost ready to cry, as 
she saw a neighbor approaching, evidently to 
interrupt them, “but I should have been 
ducked or drowned if he had not helped me, 
and I told him you would thank him for me. 
He is Mr. Vincent’s cousin, and his name is 
Carlton.” 

“Are you scolding your granddaughter, Sel- 
wyn ?” said old Mr. Moore coming up to them. 
“What mischief have you been in, Miss Jean- 
nie? Stealing sweetmeats or tearing your 
frock ? You look penitent.” 

“Getting my feet wet,” answered Janet 
laughing, and she went to join her grand- 
mother. 

The old dark church under the spreading 
oaks, with the cheerful groups clustered 
around it in the bright March sunshine, was a 
pretty sight. A little withdrawn into the 
wood the servants were busy with the horses, 
taking them from the carriages and tying 
them to the trees, so to remain during church 
time in charge of some of the younger negroes, 
while the elder or more devout hastened to 
take their places in church on the benches on 
the “colored side” of the building. 

This was itself much larger than the pres- 
ent congregation required. It had been origi- 
nally square in shape, built of the small dark 
brown Pricks which used in Colonial times to 
be sent out from England, but the square 
had been broken two generations before by 
two small semi-circular projections, thrown 
out at the east and west ends. The one, in- 
tended to form a chancel, which had hitherto 
stood in the most unorthordox way against 
the north wall; the other to hold an organ, the 


gift of Mr. Selwyn’s grandfather. This said 
organ, a queer little old thing, was together 
with a bed which hung in an^odd pepper-box 
tower to the north, the pride of the whole 
neighborhood. None of the other country 
churches in the State had either organ or bell 
and St. George’s valued itself accordingly. 
True the bell was cracked, and the organ had 
been, until a short time previous, fearfully 
discordant, but as these defects were com- 
fortably attributed to injuries received from 
the British in the Revolution, they were gene- 
rally considered a dignity the more. 

So, too, the church books, which had been 
carried off to London and recovered in a very 
remarkable manner, were so sacred in the 
eye6 of the congregation that although the 
pages were torn and the print indistinct from 
time and much use, it was quite impossible to 
reconcile them to the idea of any others being 
used; and poor Mr. Cheshire, the rector, being 
somewhat dim sighted, was fain to conceal a 
small unbound Prayer-book within the heavy 
crimson and gold volume, w T hich he some- 
times complained was the only outward and 
visible sign of the Rrotestant Episcopal 
Church to most of his parishioners. Within, 
the church was divided into four equal parts, 
by the aisles which crossed it, the pulpit and 
reading desk filling the north end of the main 
aisle, and thus fronting the south door, which 
indeed was now the only one, as those at the 
east and west had of course been closed by 
the erection of the chancel and organ loft. 

Above the pulpit still blazed the royal arms. 
They had been whitewashed over during the 
Revolution, but when the feeling of love and 
reverence for the old returned to mitigate the 
warmth of republican fervor, a zealous anti- 
quarian had overcome the political scruples 
of his fellow-worshippers; the whitewash had 
been removed, and the colors proving bright, 
the gold-collared lion and unicorn still held 
their shield, with the proud motto, “ Dien et 
Mon DroiV above the clergyman, \vho prayed 
Sunday after Sunday for “the President of 
these United States.” 

On the walls were a few monuments, mostly 
slabs of dingy gray marble, many of them 
surmounted by coats of arms to “Anthony 
B— , Gentleman of this Province, and Mar- 
gery his wife,” and others, their friends and 
neighbors, frequently mentioning the English 
county or estate from which the good folks 
had come. 

Also, there was one wooden construction at 
which the children looked with awe, for they 
knew that it meant that somebody was dead; 
and although the somebody had been dead 
for more than a hundred years, yet the fact of 
seeing it thus specially set forth, gave the 
i dead man a curious sort of vitality in their 
young minds. It was in fact a hatchment, 
with the shield reversed, and other devices 
which w'ere intended to announce, although 
their signification was faint to republican 
eyes, that Fulke Handon, Knight, had'died the 
last of his race. 

The pews, high, square oak boxes in which 


16 


ashurst; or the days that are not. 


the children stood on tiptoe in order to gaze 
at these things, had not been altered when 
the chancel was thrown out, and to the de- 
spair of one or two of the congregation who 
were beginning to take an interest in the ritu- 
alistic movement, many stood with their 
backs to it. They, the pews I mean, were all 
in the eastern part of the church, for when 
the white population of the parish had 
dwindled and the black increased, those on 
the west had been removed and the space 
filled with rows of high backed benches for 
the accommodation of the negroes. 

These, however, were seldom occupied by 
any but the coachmen and footmen who came 
with their masters, and by a few “upper ser- 
vants” who thought that it suited their dig- 
nity to appear there; the great body of “the 
people” preferring the more emotional ser- 
vices of the Methodists and Baptists, who had 
large wooden churches in the neighborhood. 

All the time that the congregation was talk- 
ing without, the sexton, a solemn looking old 
negro, (the effect of whose grave black suit 
was somewhat impaired by the red worsted 
cap which he wore for the “rheumatic in de 
head”) perched on a ladder supposed to be 
concealed against the north wall, was pulling 
at a long rope, which, hanging from the 
pepper-box tower before mentioned, set the 
bell in motion. No one thought of objecting 
to its cracked jangle, but the outraged echoes 
must have rejoiced when Mr. Ralph Selwyn, 
the church warden, looking at his watch, went 
round and waved his hand to the old man on 
the ladder. With one final clang the bell 
stopped, the talk died away, and the first 
notes of the organ, (which had been repaired 
upon the discovery of Herr Muller’s musical 
talent,) were heard, inviting all listeners to 
enter. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“On to God's house the people prest; 

Pa sing the place where each must ret t, 

Each enter'd like a welcome guest.” 

[ Tennyson. 

Janet was rewarded. The old Herr in his 
happiest mood was drawing such sweet, 
solemn sounds from his poor little instrument 
as it had never produced before. Even the 
most careless were struck and delighted, and 
Allan looked at Janet with full forgiveness of 
her gentle tyranny. 

Now Janet was a good girl, and moreover a 
good churchwoman, as it behooved a daughter 
of the Cavaliers to be, nevertheless it must be 
owned that her thoughts wandered sadly as 
soon as the cessation of the voluntary un- 
chained her attention. She tried hard to think 
of the service, and made her responses duly, 
but she could not help wondering whether 
nothing more interesting than the Miss Vin- 
cent’s new bonnets was to be seen in their 
pew that day. When at last she had almost 
ceased to think about it, Mr. Vincent, a portly 


old gentleman about the same age as her 
grandfather, entered, followed by “the 
Knight of the Frogpond,” as Allan had scorn- 
fully dubbed him. The Vincent pew was be- 
hind the Selwyn, and Janet had only time as 
they passed to be sure that it was her hero, 
the change from a green hunting suit to ibe 
deepest mourning that a man can wear puz- 
zling her for the moment. He it was however 
undoubtedly, and as soon as the blessing was 
pronounced she whispered: 

“That is he, grandpapa, and, indeed, 1 was 
a bear.” 

“Hey, Vincent ! you were late to-day,” said 
Mr. Selwyn, going up to his contemporary as 
they went out. 

“Very late. My young cousin, here, was 
with me, and w 7 e rode round to see his grand- 
father’s old place, Deerlawn.” 

“I am right, then. This gentleman is your 
Aunt Ellinor’s son ?” 

“Son ! You forget, Selwyn. My aunt has 
been dead these thirty years. This lad is her 
grandson. Here, Hugh ! Let me introduce 
you to one of my oldest friends, Mr. Selwyn, 
of Ashurst.” 

“Where I hope to have the pleasure of see- 
ing you, Mr. Carlton,” returned Mr. Selwyn. 
“I remember your grandmother well. Was in 
love with her myself, as a small boy; half the 
men and boys in the country were. 1 remem- 
ber being very miserable when she married 
and went away. However, I meant to speak 
not of your grandmother, but of my grand- 
daughter. She tells me that you helped her 
out of an ugly scrape the other day. I am 
exceedingly obliged to you.” 

Hugh bowed, and “hoped the young iady 
had not suffered,” a fact of which his own 
eyes had already assured him. 

“Not at all! not at all. Will you both 
come and dine with me to-morrow ?” 

Hugh was to leave early the next morning. 

“Then come to-day,” said Mr. Selwyn, 
warmly. “Vincent, you won’t object to 
Sunday, and will trust to Mrs. Selwyn ’s 
larder. I think there is some of that old 
Madeira left still.” 

“I will take my chance of Mrs. Selwyn’s 
housekeeping at any time. Any objection, 
Hugh?” 

“None, sir. It will give me great pleas- 
ure.” 

“That’s right. Now come along and be in- 
troduced to Mrs. Selwyn; Janet you know 
already.” 

The" congregation dispersed. Mrs. Selwyn 
drove off in her old-fashioned coach, round- 
bodied, and mounted on high springs, with 
no other companion than her old house- 
keeper, on the front seat; her husband taking 
a horse from a servant aud riding with his 
granddaughter and guests. 

For a time all four rode abreast, but when 
they turned from the main road the two elders 
went ahead, letting the young people follow 
them. Janet felt a strong return of shyness, 
but did her best to conquer it, as her com- 
panion said, smiling : 


asiiurst; or tiie days that are not. 


17 


‘‘You promised me that your grandfather 
should thank me for that immense deed 
of mine, you know — but, you see, he has 
asked me to dinner besides. That was more 
than you bargained for.” 

“Oil ! that has nothing to do with me,” she 
answered, hastily. “He was sure to do that 
as soon as he found out that he had known 
your grandmother.” 

“Rather a severe test of friendship. What, 
all one’s acquaintances’ grandsons ? A 
dweller in cities would hardly agree to that.” 

“If they were like grandpapa they would.” 

“People like your grandpapa don’t dwell 
in cities. I suppose that long domination 
and broad acres are necessary to produce a 
development like that.” 

“Are they,” said Janet, simply. “They 
don’t always produce it, though. John 
Hewson has a great deal more land than 
grandpapa, and he is as mean a man in every 
way as well can be.” 

“Perhaps he is not 

‘A long descended laird . f .Ayr.’ ” 

“Oh yes he is. Did not you see their monu- 
ment in church ? ‘Christopher Hewson, Gen- 
tleman of this province, son of Sir Nathaniel 
Hewson, Oakdale Park, Norfolk, England.’ 
That was his ever so many times off grand- 
father.” 

“Oh if you call in a monument to support 
your side ! Yes, of course it is a prejudice, 
and a strong one. Still I did not mean that 
all the landed gentry have that style, only 
you seldom see it in others. And now let me 
ask you a question. Had you any idea of the 
depth of the water into which your botanical i 
ardor led you ?” 

“Allan says it’s not deep enough to drown 
a cat.-” j 

“Well, when I went back yesterday it ] 
would have drowned me if I had not known 
how to swim, and Mr. Vincent tells me that it 
is known as Dead Man’s Pool, because some 
unfortunate (not very sober probably) was 
once found floating in it.” 

“But not where we were ?” t 

“Not a yard from Queen Mab’s heels.” 

“Good gracious! What, should I have done?” 

“Why swimming in a riding habit would 
not be easy.” 

“Swimming at all would be impossible to 
me. I don’t know how.” 

“Don’t look so pale. I suspect that Mab’s 
instincts would have kept her out of the deep 
hole, but still as they were rather obfusti- 
cated by the snake, she might — ” 

“Oh ! I dorf t‘ think she had any sense left. 
Dear me, I haven’t been half grateful enough 
to you. You saved my life perhaps.” 

“A great deal too grateful. I had no notion 
that there was any danger, nor was there, to 
me. I only tell you now lest another Dionea 
should tempt you again.” 

“Oh never,” she cried, w 7 ith a shudder. 

“But why did you go back ?” 

“For purposes of investigation. It took 

3 


two or three glorious ‘headers’ to bring this 
to light, and I am sorry to say broken.” 

“My whip,” she cried eagerly, as he drew 7 
it from his pocket. “Oh I am so glad' to get 
it again. Grandpapa had it made for me 
when his horse Rex won the great three mile 
race. Thank you very much; but how did 
you find it, and did you really go back into 
that horrid creek just for it ?” 

“A very good bathing place indeed — for a 
diver. And I found it just where you lost it, 
by the broken Dionea, but as you see in two 
pieces.” 

“Were there any more snakes?” 

“No. I examined into that matter first. In 
fact I don’t believe that ours was a true rep- 
tile. Probably a fairy masquerading to intro- 
duce us to each other.” 

“Very ungrateful of us to kill her then.” 

“You see I did not recognize her good in- 
tentions; perhaps it was unlucky. Fortuna- 
tus, I remember, fed his snake, and she re- 
warded him with the cap and rose. This one 
may do me some ill turn in retribution.” 

“I hope not;” earnestly, “I’m sure not, or if 
she does, she must harm me too, for it was all 
on my account, and I was glad when you 
killed it.” 

“You promise, then, to share the fate ?” he 
said, bending down smilingly to look into her 
eves, expecting her to laugh and blush as an 
older girl would have done, but she met his 
look with the grave, truthful eyes of a child, 
and answered earnestly: “I should feel it 
only fair, if I could, to take all the punish- 
ment; it was all my doing — .” Then, 
bursting into a merry laugh, she cried: “What 
nonsense we are talking ! As if it were any- 
thing but a water moccasin ! Here — this is 
the Ashurst avenue, and grandpapa is wait- 
ing for us.” 

“I believe the schoolboy is the real one,” 
thought Hugh, somewhat, vexed as they rode 
on, and joined their elder companions. 

In the mhanwhile, Mr. Selwyn had said to 
his friend: 

“I beg your pardon, Vincent, but I thought 
that there was some coolness between your 
aunt’s family and your own.” 

“So there was. Her husband (she herself 
did not live long, poor thing,) differed with 
my father about the settlement of their 
father’s estate, and for years there was no 
communication whatever.” 

“Then how does this youngster come 
here ?” 

“We fell in with him two years ago 
when I took the girls to the Commencement 
at Harvard. We wore actually introduced 
before either suspected who the other was. 
He behaved very well, kept in the back- 
ground and quiet, but in the evening he came 
down to the Tremont, and sent in his card, 
asking if we would receive him. Mj t wife 
said it was high time to let by-gones be by- 
gones, and we asked him in.” 

“Quite right, too. Then you asked him 
here ?” 

“Yes, and he told us how his father had 


18 


ashurst; or the days that are not. 


married in Mississippi and settled there, leav- 
ing Maryland altogether, which was the way 
that we had lost sight of them so completely. 
Then he wrote to his father, my cousin, you 
know, whom I had never seen, and he wrote to 
me, and the upshot of it all was, that we 
agreed to meet as relatives should. They 
were both to have come to us in the next 
vacation, but poor Carlton (the father 1 mean) 
died; and Hugh (he is named after my grand- 
father, Hugh Vincent Carlton,) had not the 
heart to come alone.” 

“He is a handsome, well mannered young 
fellow. No brothers or sisters?” 

“None — there was one half-sister, weak 
minded, or simple, I suspect, but she died 
about the same time as the father; so he is 
quite alone, on his way now to Europe for the 
‘grand tour,’ as we used to say in our day — 
‘Ah! are those your sheep? What breed?’ 
&c.” 

Mr. Selwyn and his guests had returned 
from an afternoon stroll to the stables where 
they had visited not only “Rex,” victor of 
two hard won fields, but “Princess Royal,” 
own sister to “Rex,” whose triumphs were yet 
to come, a delicate highbred beauty of whom 
great things were expected by her owner. 
Mr. Vincent doubted — “bred too fine, not 
enough bone,” was his opinion, but Mr. 
Selwyn (who, although as he never failed to 
remark, “was not on the turf,” had always, 
like his fathers before him, one or two blood 
horses in his stable, and more than one piece 
of racing plate on his sideboard,) had great 
confidence in his own judgment and main- 
tained the superiority of “pure strain” and 
“spirit” over the grosser advantages of bone 
and weight. Still discussing these absorbing 
topics, the gentlemen returned to the house, 
and there as the sun had not yet set, and the 
evening was mild, Mr. Selwyn ordered chairs 
and a small table placed in the piazza, that 
his friends might smoke a last cigar, and 
have a parting glass of wine, a stirrup cup, 
before taking leave. 

It was a lovely evening. The first approach 
of spring made itself known by the warmth 
of the almost horizontal rays, which shot 
across the lawn and turned the white stone 
floor of the piazza into gold, while the wintry 
cold waited only for the disappearance of 
those rays to reassert its power. From one 
side the cows were returning from their pas- 
ture; from another the long white line of 
sheep came filing across the lawn to their 
fold. Everything was peaceful and tranquil, 
and from where he sat, Hugh Carlton could 
catch sight, through the open drawing room 
window, of Mrs. Selwyn’s white, high 
crowned cap, as she leaned back in her chair, 
and could hear the clear low tones of Janet’s 
voice, and even some words of the sermon, 
which she was reading aloud to her grand- 
mother. 

The peace, the calm serenity of the scene 
filled the young man’s soul with a gentle 
sense of happiness. He looked back to pain- 
ful days and events of his own life, which he 


had thought would be ever present burning 
sorrows, and they seemed to be already fad- 
ing into the past, the twilight land of long 
ago. 

Not listening to his companions’ talk, he 
began involuntarily to follow the sermon. It 
was upon the trials, the bitterness, the uncer- 
tainties of life. “Man heapeth up riches and 
cannot tell who shall gather them.” “Watch, 
therefore, for no one knoweth when the Son 
of Man eometh.” “We walk in the valley of 
the shadow of death.” Such texts recurred 
again and again. 

“A month, or even a week ago,” said the 
young man to himself, “this sad, warning 
discourse would have chimed only too well 
with my own mood; but here, in this happy 
valley, amid this peaceful prosperity, it is hard 
to believe it. It is easier to think that these 
are the Fortunate Isles — that beyond that 
wood lies Aviliou, that sorrow and pain find 
here no place.” 

So lazily dreaming as he lounged on his 
chair, he was aroused by hearing Mr.* Vincent 
say sharply : 


C a AFTER IX. 

“Each MaMn bell, the Baron saith, 

Knells us back to a world of death.” 

[ Coleridge. 

“Look, Selwyn ! There is a fellow who 
has overriden his horse terribly. Is he one of 
your boys?” 

“Not of mine. None of my boys would 
dare to bring in a horse like that,” answered 
Mr. Selwyn, with quick interest, for to the 
Southerner horseflesh, though in a different 
condition, is as sacred as to the Norseman. 
“Why, he is whipping the poor beast again ! 
Vincent, something — ” 

And, struck with the curious instinct of 
approaching calamity, the three men stood 
silently watching, as the rider, instead of fol- 
lowing the sweep of the road, cut straight 
across the grass, and drew up his horse at 
the steps. Then, in a strange, hoarse voice, 
Mr. Selwyn said : 

“1 know him. George Berkley’s coach- 
man.” 

The man, almost as exhausted as the horse, 
stumbled up the steps, and taking off his cap, 
said, as he held out a letter : 

“Master sent me, sir, and said, ‘ride hard.’ ” 

Mr. Selwyn took the letter, but exclaimed : 
“Say, boy, what is it ?” 

“it’s— it’s Mas’ James, sir. No, sir, not 
dead, but — ” 

Mr. Selwyn had torn open the letter, and 
taking in its contents at a glance, dropped 
into his chair with a groan and covered his 
face with his hands. 

“Selwyn — Good Heavens man — tell me what 
has happened— James Berkley ? What is it ?” 

Mr. Selwyn silently held out the letter. Mr. 
Vincent took it and read — 


19 


ashukst; ok the d 

“My Dear Sir— -l am sorry to tell you that 
James has had a very severe accident. He 
went on board a ship which they were load- 
ing, fell through a hatchway into the hold, 
and hurt, they say, his spine. At first we did 
not know how serious the injury was, but he 
has become rapidly worse in the last three 
hours. Pray come at once and bring Janet: 
he has asked for her. 

Yours truly, George Berkley.” 

On the outside of the envelope, in a lady’s 
hand, were the words, “The doctor says lose 
no time.” 

Mr. Vincent read, gave the letter to Hugh, 
and putting his hand on Mr. Selwyn’s shoulder 
said kindly, 

“My old friend, it’s a hard blow — but there 
are women in there, and no time to lose.” 

The old man rose instantly, with a face of 
that terrible gray hue which is the pallor of 
old age, and said quietly: 

“True, thank you Vincent,” turning to the 
servant, “Any other message, Jack ?” 

“Just that, sir. I was not to mind the horse 
and ride hard, and master said he would send 
horses to meet you at the Twenty Mile House. 
Missus wrote that on the cover, after I was 
mounted, for master, he couldn’t leave Mas’ 
James again.” 

At this moment Mrs. Selwyn and Janet, 
hearing the agitated voices, came out. Mr. 
Selwyn as hastily as possible told them what 
had happened, and gave the letter to Janet, 
saying to his wife: 

“Get her ready to start in half an hour, in 
the dog cart, t’is the lightest; you must come 
to-morrow.” 

“In that open cart, and you will drive all 
night? Indeed, indeed you cannot.” 

“It will not be too cold for her, wrap her 
up well, your furs, blankets. I cannot risk a 
heavy carriage or take a servant, every pound 
tells on the pace.” 

“My dear, you forget how old you are! You 
cannot drive in the cold for so many hours.” 

“I can drive grandmamma,” interposed 
Janet, who had stood as if stunned. 

“I am young and strong. I will drive. Oh!* 
do not let us talk, let us go at once.” 

“Bight, Janet, get your cloak. Vincent, will 
you come to the stable with me ?” 

Meanwhile the servants, hurrying up, had 
learnt the news from the messenger, and 
already the stable boys were on the alert. 
Quick and sharp came the master’s orders. 
“Zack, take the gray horses, ride on twenty 
miles, stop at the Club House, cool them off 
and give a little water. I will be only half an 
hour behind you. Caesar run out the dog- 
cart, put in the bays, (yes it’s Mas’ James,”) 
iu answer to an affectionate inquiry from the 
white-headed coachman. “Abel — where’s 
Abel ? Saddle Robin Hood. No, Caesar, I 
can’t take you. I must have a boy that can 
ride all night, and you must come with your 
mistress to-morrow. Be ready to start in 
twenty minutes and come up to the door.” 

“What, can I do for you, Selwyn— I or my 
horses ?” I 


AYS THAT AKE NOT. 


“No one can help me,” the old man cried, 
with a burst of anguish — then instantly re- 
pressing it, he added, “It is weakness, Vin- 
cent, but forgive it — you lost one of your sons 
once, and this is my only one.” 

Mr. Vincent made no answer but a silent 
pressure on the arm, and Mr. Selwyn added 
more calmly: 

“Yes, if you can go, or send, to my brother 
Ralph to-night, give him George’s letter and 
tell him that he must come in the morning, 
and bring my wife to town with his horses. 
Caesar, take care of Mas’ George Berkeley’s 
boy, Jack, and the horse, they are overdone.” 

They returned to the house and found Janet 
bonneted and cloaked, standing ready in the 
hall; her grandmother, with busy maicls about 
her, was collecting wraps innumerable, and 
pressing the poor child to eat and drink before 
starting. Janet put aside the biscuits, but 
took the proffered coffee. Mr. Selwyn also 
took a cup and while he was drinking it, and 
Mr. Vincent was speaking with Mrs. Selwyn 
of her arrangements for the morrow, J anet 
turned and seeing Hugh’s compassionate eyes 
iixed on her face went towards him, saying 
eagerly — 

“Tell me. Do not you think that it may be 
a mistake — that he may get well ?” 

For an instant the desire to give relief 
tempted him sorely, but the pale face was too 
earnest for a false answer, or to be cheated 
with a hollow hope, and he replied sadly : 

“I dare not deceive you— they say the spine, 
and it would be cruel kindness to bid you 
hope in that case. I fear you must expect 
the worst.” 

Paler she could not be, but the light died 
out of the eyes. The carriage came to the 
door, Mr. Selwyn got in, and Janet was 
clasped tearless in her grandmother’s tearful 
embrace. Hugh took her hand to help her in. 

“Forgive me,” he said softly. “I could, not 
say otherwise, and I know it all, for I have 
lost my father too. God help you.” 

“God help you,” she answered, and they 
whirled away into the night. 

All her life long Janet never forgot that 
journey. The long, long drive through the 
tall dark woods. No sound of man’s making, 
only the steady tramp of horse’s feet and the 
grind of the wheels through the sand. The 
strange weird noises of the forest, the creak 
and groan of the tree boughs, the hoot of the 
owls, the cries of the prowling nocturnal ani- 
mals, darkness on either hand, the long white 
road stretching endlessly before, anil over- 
head the stars, that had never looked so 
hardly bright or so far off before. 

Not a word did either traveller speak until, 
at the end of the first twenty miles, they 
found Zack with the relay of horses, awaiting 
them, and as they drew up in the glare of the 
torchlight, Mr. Selwyn looked at his watch, 
and said, “Two hours and a quarter. Good 
time, Janet.” 

The ordinary commonplace remark so 
jarred upon her excited nerves, that with a 
I gasp she burst into tears, to her great morti- 


20 


ashurst; or the days that are not. 


fication. “Cry, child; ’twill do you good,” 
said the old gentleman, and he got down and 
walked about while the change of horses was 
being made. Then opening a flask of wine he 
poured out a little, and said, 

“Drink it, Janet; you must be strong now.” 

She obeyed and ate a biscuit. 

“I will drive now,” she said, taking the 
reins, and off they went once more. 

At the end of another twenty miles, George 
Berkley’s servants and horses met them. 

“No hope— lose no time,” was all the mes- 
sage; an order obeyed to the letter, for when 
Mr. Selwyn drew up at his nephew’s door, in 
the intense darkness that precedes the dawn, 
he was not without a certain sense of satisfac- 
tion at having done his sixty miles in seven 
hours’ time. 

Little thought Janet of that. Springing to 
the ground, she saw with increased dismay 
that the door opened before she could reach it, 
that the hall was filled with servants, and that 
all wore an expectant look — expectant of 
what? As she entered, her cousin, Mrs. 
George Berkley, came forward to meet her, 
saying eagerly, “Thank Heaven, my love, 
you are in time; he may know you, has asked 
for you twice.” A low cry passed Janet’s 
lips; she had never, in her inexperience, 
thought of the danger of finding him insen- 
sible, and she followed her cousin up stairs 
with trembling knees. 

Mrs. Berkley opened a door and there lay 
her father. “Bonny King Jamie,” his play- 
mates had called him in his youth, and Bonny 
he was even now. Raised high ou pillows, 
with his sunny hair un tinged with grey 
about his brows, and a flush like that of 
health ou his cheek, he looked so well, so 
handsome, that Janet could not believe in his 
danger. Darting past, she threw herself on 
her knees beside him, and seizing his hand 
cried, “Oh, papa, papa ! You are not so ill, 
dear papa speak to me.” 

But no answer came; the eyes did not open, 
the hand move, the deep breathing continued 
unbroken; there was a movement in the 
room, and looking up she saw her step- 
mother opposite to her, Agnes and Mrs. 
George Berkley at the foot of the bed, and 
her grandfather entering on George Berkley ’s 
arm. Her stepmother said coldly, 

“Control yourself, Janet, you must not dis- 
turb him.” “She can do no harm,” said a 
voice behind her, which she recognized as 
that of Dr. Wilcox, their physician. “I am 
disappointed; I thought from his having asked 
for her, so lately, that she might rouse him.” 

“He was not conscious,” Mrs. Berkley re- 
plied. 

“When, when did he ask ?” cried Janet. 

“Not more than half an hour ago.” 

“Only then,” she replied in a tone of an- 
guish, “he would have known me then. Papa, 
dear papa, here I am, don’t you know me ? 
Can’t you hear me ?” No sign came. 

“It is I, Janet, your little Janet, your own, 
your love Janet,” kissing his closed lids. 


The eyelids opened vaguely, the fingers 
tightened on hers, and he spoke : 

“Janet, love, are you come? Don’t go 
away. Wife, where were you ? I can’t see 
you; oh, wife, stay with me, my Jeannie.” 

Then Mr. Selwyn broke into a sob, and 
cried : 

“He takes her for his wife, my Janet. Oh, 
James, boy, are you going ?” 

But the darkening eyes, the deadening ears 
had no life for any voice, any name, but one, 
and with Janet’s hand clasped in his, Janet’s 
name, only to him, not her’s, but that of his 
life-long love, her mother, on his lips, James 
Berkley’s spirit parted. 

The doctor raised the sobbing girl from the 
bed where she still lay, clasping the stiffening 
hand, saying kindly : 

“My poor child, you must go, he does not 
need you now,” and would have drawn her 
from the room; but seeing Agnes still immov- 
able at the foot of the bed, she threw herself 
on her neck, crying, 

“Oh, sister, our father, our father !” but 
Agnes drew back, saying, 

“ Your father f and turning, left the room. 


CHAPTER X. 

‘ * * * * his requiem is clone. 

The last deep pray, r is said.” 

[Willis. 

“Yes, we buried him, and there was not a 
dry eye there, not a man of us all but had a 
sob in the throat as we shut the old vault on 
him; and Cousin Alfred, grand old fellow as 
he is, put his hand on little Geordie’s head 
and said, ‘I am glad that you have boys, 
George, and the old name won’t die out.,’ 
and now to come home and find this cursed 
will.” 

The speaker was George Berkley, a stout 
man of forty, who, with his hands behind 
Ibis back, strode up and down the room, talk- 
ing to his wife, as she lay on a sofa by the 
fire. 

“Very bad indeed,” returned she. “I be- 
lieve, on the whole, George, that, all things 
considered, I prefer disagreeable men.” 

“The devil you do !” 

“Don’t swear. Yes, I really do — now like 
you, for instance.” 

“Disagreeable /” 

“Why, yes, of course; your temper now is 
none of the best, I must confess, but I dou’t 
think that you would ever make such a will 
as that.” 

“I hope not. At first we thought that it 
could not stand, but Elton and Burgess, whom 
we consulted at once, give us no hope of that. 
‘Hurried, but legal,’ they say.” 

“How was it made?” 

“The day after the accident, when the bad 
turn first came on, he told his wife what to 


ashurst; or the days that are not. 


21 


say, and she wrote it down, and then read it 
to Maxwell in his presence, he assenting. 
Maxwell took the directions home, and next 
day brought the will drawn up in form. He 
was conscious then, but did not speak. 
Maxwell read it over to him, and they called 
me and the two doctors into the room, and he 
bowed his head and signed it, and we sigued 
as witnesses, but we did not hear it read.” 

“Oh ! he ‘bowed his head and signed,’ did 
he? He would have signed your death war- 
rant just as calmly then, I suppose, with that 
woman standing by. George, it was by com- 
pulsion !” 

“How can you make that out ?” 

“How can you ask, knowing James so well? 
He did not dare refuse. You should have 
sent her out of the room.” 

“My dear ! His wife !” 

“Ah ! I could go in for woman’s rights 
when you talk like that. To be sure, just be- 
cause she was his wife. Poor James was al- 
ways governed by the person nearest to him, 
and you should have made Mr. Maxwell read 
him that paper, with those hard black eyes of 
hers out of sight.” 

“I hope that the jury will never be one of 
women’s rights ! Heaven help the unlucky 
woman brought up for trial then ! Poor 
James’s wife seems to me a harmless common- 
place person, not quite like the rest of 
you — .” 

“I’m glad you see that.” 

“But not at at ail up to any such tricks as 
you seem to imagine.” 

“1 haven’t said a word of the sort.” 

“Oh, haven’t you ! She has full power 
now, anyway. All his property for life; no 
exception made for what he got with Jauet’s 
mother; the girls to live with her, and not to 
marry without her consent, under pain of for- 
feiting their share after her death.” 

“What, in perpetuity ? Never to be old 
enough to choose their own husbauds ?” 

“In perpetuity. But for that matter, when 
Janet is twenty-one she can do as she pleases; 
her grandfather will take care of that; but 
Agnes is totally dependent on her.” 

“Agues rules her, and, as things now stand, 
will, through her, rule Janet.” 

“By-the-by, what sort of a girl is Agnes ?” 

“She is not a girl at all. A woman, and not 
a good one.” 

“Come, come Lotty, James’s daughter, and 
so handsome.” 

“As you please, poor little Janet !” 

“Dear little soul ! So gentle and yielding ! 
Just like James.” 

II — m ! Reverse the quotation : ‘As is 
moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto 
wine.’ ” 

“How ?” 

“You don’t really believe that Janet is that 
delightful good-for-nothing creature ' that 
James was ?” 

“Lotty ! Lotty ! Well, what is she?” 

“She is a delightful, good-for-a-great-deal 
creature.” 

“Well ! well ! Yes, he was weak; but I 


loved him all the more for it, Lotty.” And 
the strong man’s voice trembled. 

“My dear old fellow !” she cried, springing 
up and throwing her arms around his neck. 
“I loved him, too, dear; but Janet will do bet- 
ter, for she will be strong so sweetly that peo- 
ple will love her strength. And now, tell me 
who is Mr. Maxwell ? And how came he to 
draw the will?” 

“His father was one of our people; but he 
died long ago, and his widow went back to 
the West, where she came from, and was 
quite lost sight of until last year old Mr. 
Crofts, when he went away for his health, 
met this son, who was very anxious to return 
here. Crofts was lookiug out for a partner, 
and took him, and now Crofts is so ill that 
everything goes into Maxwell’s hands. He is a 
very clever fellow, and behaves very properly 
in all this painful affair.” 

“Oh !” 

“What now ?” 

“Only that I don’t like him, and that I 
think Mrs. James Berkley does.” 

“Why she cannot have seen him half a 
dozen times. Do you mean anything very 
sternly. 

“No harm, George, but I happened to see 
Mrs. James and the lawyer talkiug together 
a few hours before James’s death, and if they 
were not old acquaintances — ” 

“One of your absurd notions— quite im- 
possible. But the point now is about Janet. 
Cousin Alfred swears he won’t give her up, 
and how is it to be mauaged ?” 

How it was to be managed was indeed the 
question. If Janet had been capable of re- 
sistance, of claiming the right, at her age, to 
choose her own guardian, something might 
have been done; but the poor girl had fallen 
into a most unnecessary tit of repentance for 
fancied neglect of her father. She imagiued 
that she had never loved or valued him as she 
should have done, and Mrs. Berkley, with in- 
genious bints and half uttered insinuations, 
so worked upon her feelings, that she ac- 
cepted the order to remain under her control, 
as a sort of penance, by the patient endur- 
ance of which she might comply with his 
last desire and in some degree expiate her 
fault. From this resolve Mrs. Selwyn vainly 
tried to move her, and it was without her aid 
that the united forces opened their batteries 
upon Mrs. Berkley. 

Mrs. Selwyn persuaded. “By the pain which 
she herself would feel if parted from Agnes,” 
she besought her to give her her grandchild. 

Mrs. Berkley was “forced to endure a pain 
the more; she, who had faucied herself dead 
to pain, in being obliged to refuse anything 
that her dearest aunt wished, but her hus- 
band’s last command she could not, dared not, 
disobey. Any wish of his was sacred to her, 
how much so then, this his dying injunction!” 

Mrs. Selwyn retired, baffled but uncon- 
vinced. 

Mr. Selwyn, through Mr. Parky ns, bribed, 
offering to take all expense off Mrs. Berk- 
ley’s hands and to renounce all claim on the 


22 


ashurst; or the days that are not. 


part of Janet to her mother’s property, for 
Mrs. Berkley’s life, if she were given up to 
him. If not, legal proceedings would be im- 
mediately instituted to recover it. 

Mrs. Berkley hesitated, but thought that 
she could manage that later, and as there is 
one passion dearer to woman than gold or 
gear, she answered piteously: ‘‘Could Mr. 
Selwyn imagine that she would sell her child, 
or give for money what she had refused to 
her aunt’s request.” 

Mr. Parkyns retreated in confusion. 

George Berkley argued “the Selwyns were 
Janet’s natural guardians,” &c. 

Mrs. Berkley “could not pretend to argue on 
such a subject, and with such a mind. But 
there was one fact which perhaps Mr. Berk- 
ley was not aware of; she grieved to have to 
mention it, as it seemed like blaming Jauet, 
but it was unhappily the case that the dear 
girl was inclined* to be too entirely a Selwyn, 
to undervalue her father’s family. It was sad 
but not unnatural, as she had been brought 
up so exclusively by her grand-parents; but it 
had always distressed her father, who wished 
her to love and reverence his own family as it 
deserved !” 

“George Berkley, puzzled, thought that 
there might be something in it.” 

Mrs. George Berkley declined to take any 
active part in the attack. Her advice was 
that a lawyer should be retained. That Mr. 
Maxwell should be engaged to represent the 
case to Mrs. Berkley aud influence her upon 
it. This advice not being accepted, the allied 
forces confessed themselves routed and aban- 
doned the place, and as the planting season 
was upon them, Mr. Selwyn returned in great 
wrath to his fields, carrying off his wife and 
having the light of his house behind him. 

Poor Janet J No one who then saw her for 
the first time would have believed that the 
name could ever be an appropriate one. 

At first she moved about the house in her 
heavy black robes, as one in a trance of grief. 
Then, when impatient words and looks 
showed her that this annoyed her stepmother 
and sister, she endeavored to rouse herself 
and set herself with gentle diligence to please 
them, offering love and service, by every 
means in her power. But all in vain; her 
work they took, nay imposed, but by neither 
word or ' sign did they accept or return her 
proffered affection. Soon she began to see 
that this was what was intended, and felt 
daily more strongly the icy barrier that 
divided her from them, and which never al- 
lowed her to forget that she was with, but not 
of them — a presence to be endured, not en- 
joyed. She wondered, vaguely at first, 
whether it was for this purpose that she had 
been kept, if the lot designed for her was that 
of drudge and souffre douleur. When this 
thought first came to her, she shrank from it 
with horror, trying to think it a wicked imagi- 
nation of her own brain, sought in herself, 
and her own conduct, faults which deserved 
repression, and accounted for the customary 
chilling reserve by the oppression of sorrow; 


for the harsh speeches, by which alone that 
reserve was broken, by the bitterness of grief. 

She tried in vain to draw this veil over her 
own eyes, to deceive her own mind, but it 
would not do, and she soon knew that in 
looking forward to her life as a penance, her 
imagination had fallen far short of the truth — 
that far more than what she had resolved to 
endure Mrs. Berkley was fully resolved to in- 
flict. Pride came to her aid. “I can bear it,” 
she thought; and she nerved herself to such 
silent endurance. 

By and by, however, she began to wonder 
if this were not unnecessary self-immolation. 
She thought of her father, of his tenderness, 
of his loving words and caresses, remembered 
how gentle and conciliating her stepmother 
had always been to her in his presence, and 
wondered if he could have foreseen the pre- 
sent condition of things, have seen her thus 
starving for a kiud look or word; never glanced 
at but with aversion, spoken to but with 
blame, humiliated before the very servants— 
would he have still wished her to be here, 
would he have left that command. She felt 
sure of the contrary, but yet he had left it, 
and now if she were to resist, to try to escape, 
what would he think V And then the poor 
child longed to know the unknowable, and 
wished, even more bitterly than most of us 
have done, 

“Oh that it were given us for one short hour to s e 
The souls we love, that, they might te l us 
What and where tney be.” 

She prayed earnestly for guidance and for 
strength, and at last determined to remain as 
best she might until her grand-parents came 
to town, and that then, if any opportunity 
for release offered, she would seize it, con- 
j fessing humbly that there had been some 
j arrogance in the eagerness with which she 
j had caught at the occasion for self sacrifice — 
I always, although Janet did not know it, a 
temptation to enthusiastic youth. 

One afternoon she had received the usual 
contemptuous dismissal from the drawing 
room on the announcement of a visitor, and 
taking a book had carried it with her to her 
favorite seat. 

The Berkley house was an old-fashioned 
square one, standing ev,tre cour et jardin. A 
flagged hall ran through it from front to back, 
and a broad staircase led from this hall to the 
upper story, having half-way up a wide land- 
ing lighted by a high-arched window, with a 
deeply recessed and cushioned seat. Here 
Janet loved to sit, and look into the tall iron- 
wood tree, which waved its graceful boughs 
ond delicate twigs aud foliage within a few 
feet of the glass. She knew all the busy 
tribe of birds that inhabited it, and had even 
a kindliness for a little green lizard that lived 
in one particular hole. She always gave it a 
few crumbs and put them carefully into its 
own corner, out of the w r ay of her voracious 
feathered pensioners. 

On this particular evening, however, she 
was too heavy-hearted to think of birds or 


ashurst; or the days that ARE NOT. 


23 


trees, lizard or even book. Some fresh in- 
dignity from Mrs. Berkley, some new repulse 
from Agnes had made her more unhappy than 
ever, and she was sitting gazing with un- 
seeing eyes into the green world without, 
when the drawing room door above opened, 
and Mr. Maxwell came out. His steps made 
no sound on the softly carpeted stair, and 
Janet, lost in thought, sat perfectly still. 

The setting sun shone through the crimson 
curtains that covered the upper panes, and 
tinged the girl’s cheek with light, turning her 
hair to gold, and her black dress to a royal 
purple. The colors were almost as brilliant 
as if cast, by stained glass, and Maxwell, who 
was a connoisseur in beauty, stood still to 
look. Not that Janet was a beauty yet, but 
a real connoisseur can judge of the picture 
before the finishing toucfi is put, of the wine- 
before the delicate bouquet is fully developed, 

The past months had greatly changed 
Janet; sorrow sweetens and deepens noble 
natures, and a softer, more womanly grace 
had come to her, and as she sat there with 
her slender hands clasped, her gray eyes fixed 
on the glowing sky without, and her fair hair 
irradiated, an artist might have painted her as 
a youthful saint or martyr. 

“She looked a splendid angel, newly dressed, save 
wings, for Heaven,” 

Maxwell ejaculated as he saw her, and noted 
the pure outlines in the glowing colors, and 
then Keats’ “Eve of St. Agnes” came into his 
mind, and he wondered if this were Indeed 
the pale girl at whom he had hardly ever 
looked. It would not do to stand staring, 
however, so after a long gaze he descended 
the stairs, and Janet starting slightly, and 
taking up her book, made a little bow and 
fixed her eyes upon it. He paused, and 
pointing to the sky and the lovely garden 
without, said : 

“You can hardly find a printed page so fair 
as that, Miss Berkley. Even the most dili 
gent student must be distracted by such an 
outlook.” 

Janet was surprised; he had never taken 
any notice of her before, but she answered, 
hardly lifting her eyes, that “she often sat 
there, and the sunsets were generally fine.” 

“Not so fine as this, surely,” he persisted, 
“Even in an Italian sky those clouds would 
be rare.” 

Janet “had never been in Italy.” 

“That is a pleasure to come. I was there 
only for a few months, but I look back to 
them with delight.” 

Janet “supposed so.” 

“You should persuade your mother to take 
you and your sister there.” 

Janet’s lip quivered, but she only said that 
she “had no desire to leave home.” 

“Are you so very happy here ?” he said sud- 
denly, dropping his voice and bending his 
head to hers. 

She flushed with anger. “Insolent,” she 
thought, but remained silent. 

He tried another topic. “You were reading 


poetry I see. May I ask what author ? Ah, 
Coleridge ! No wonder that you were ab- 
sorbed. Was it the ‘Ancient Mariner’ who 
held you with his glittering eye ?” 

“I was reading ‘Christabelle,’ ” she said. 

“Most beautiful, especially this, and this,” 
turning the leaves rapidly, and reading 
passage after passage. 

Janet, who had never heard such admira- 
ble reading in her life before, could not help 
showing her delight; but she froze again at 
the personal tone in his voice, as closing the 
volume he said : 

“Do you know Keats’s poems — John 
Keats ? No ? You reminded me of the most 
beautiful of them just now. I will bring you 
the book.” 

The temptation waas great, for one of Janet’s 
troubles was a w^ant of books. Her father 
had rarely read — Mrs. Berkley never, and 
except the heavy leather-bound volumes of 
her grandfather’s day, there were none in the 
house. But she resisted, and answered 
coldly: “Thank you— I would rather not.” 

“You do not know. I shall certainly bring 
them.” 

She shrank instinctively and replied again: 
“I do not wish it, and Mrs. Berkley would 
not like it either.” 

“She will not object,” he answrered care- 
lessly, and before she could reply he was 
gone. 


CHAPTER XI. 

“Then Iheli tle girl smiled so sweetly into the 
face of the second ruffian that his heart smote him, 
and he said, l l will help the child out of this wood . 1 ” 

[Babes in the Wood. 

That Mrs. Berkley had seen, if not heard 
this interview Janet was sure. She had ob- 
served the drawing room door open slightly, 
and remain perfectly steady, although a strong 
draught was blowing down the passage; but 
as she (Mrs. Berkley) never mentioned it 

Janet was also silent. Two days later, how- 
ever, as Janet was about to enter the dining 
room she heard voices within and was turn- 
ing away, when Mrs. Berkley called to her in 
the gentle tone which showed the presence 
of guests: “Come in, my dear, Mr. Maxwell 
wishes to speak to you.” Janet had to com- 
ply, and Mrs. Berkley continued: 

“Mr. Maxwell, my dear, has brought you a 
book which he says you wish to see.” 

“I think 1 declined the book,” said she 
gravely. 

“I believe that you did,” said Maxwell, 
with evident amusement. “Yet I have per- 
sisted as you see.” And he offered a green 
and gold volume. 

Janet looked to Mrs. Berkley Who hastened 
to reply: 

“Of course, my dear, I can have no objec- 
tion. Any book that Mr. Maxwell recom- 
mends.” 

“Thank you,” said Janet stiffly, and w’ith- 


24 


ashurst; ok the days that ake not. 


out looking up; and laying the book on the 
table seated herself at some distance from 
the others. They were soon interrupted by a 
servant who announced— 

“The lady what colleck fo’ de’ Docas 
Society mum, an’ she beg to speak to you 
yo’self.” 

“I must go,” said Mrs. Berkley rising 
reluctantly. “Wait for me— 1 will not be 
long.” 

Maxwell instantly approached Janet. 

“Miss Berkley,” said he pleadingly, you do 
not know how wrong you are to scorn Keats 
and me. Let me only read you a few lines.” 

He looked very handsome and the poems 
were tempting, but Janet answered coldly, 
“Not to-day, thank you — I— prefer reading to 
myself. I must go up stairs now.” 

Maxwell saw that she was deaf to persua- 
sion, and changed his tactics, saying as he 
opened the door for her: 

“I heard from Mr. Selwyn this morning, 
Miss Berkley, and shall write to him to- 
morrow. Shall I give any message from 
you ?” 

Janet’s face, voice, nay her whole person 
seemed to take life and animation as she ex- 
claimed: “You hear from grandpapa? I did 
not know that.” 

“Very often” (stretching the fact, for he 
heard very seldom.) He is good enough to 
employ me to arrange some points between 
the estates, which necessitates frequent 
correspondence and visits here.” 

Janet, who knew nothing at all of business, 
wondered if all the lawyer’s visits were about 
“the estates,” and felt rather more kindly to- 
wards him. He continued: 

“In this letter he speaks doubtfully of his 
movements, and seems undecided whether to 
come here next month, or go to Virginia,” 

“Oh ! I hope,” cried Janet in an anguished 
tone, “that they will come here. What shall 
I do if they do not?” 

“I will say so,” said Maxwell, “and indeed 
I hope it on my own account. Mr. Selwyn’s 
presence will facilitate my work wonder- 
fully.” 

“Pray say so then — and say that I want 
them, oh! so much.” 

“Give me any message you like, I will de- 
liver it verbatim. But do you not write your- 
self ?” 

“Of course, but my letters get lost in the 
strangest way,” (the lawyer’s eyes twinkled,) 
“and grandmamma does not understand it, 
and writes very seldom. Only say that I send 
my love and beg them to come.” 

“As Blue Beard’s wife sent for her broth- 
ers,” he said with a quick look. She colored 
violently, but made no answer, and he con- 
tinued: “Of course they will come at your 
call. Is your mother engaged still. Miss 
Agnes ?” as over Janet’s head he saw Agnes 
walking noiselessly down the passage. 

“She begs you to go to the drawing room,” 
Agnes answered. He went, and the two 
girls were left alone. Janet, feeling some 
compunction for the scant courtesy with 


which she had behaved about the poems, 
went back to the table to take the book, 
when, contrary to all custom, Agnes spoke to 
her. 

“Was Mr. Maxwell talking to you again?” 
she asked, “and what did he say ?” 

“He brought me this book,” answered 
Janet, showing it, “and said the poems were 
very beautiful;” then, with curious impulse, 
she added: “Do you know Mr. Maxwell, 
Agnes ? and do you like him?” 

It seemed a very simple question and Janet 
was surprised at the effect produced, for 
Agnes turned full towards her, raised her 
heavy lids and said, with a force and concen- 
tration of power extraordinary in one so 
young: “I do know him, and I hate him.” 
Her really splendid eyes burnt with a fierce 
light, and Janet started amazed, but the 
large white lids fell back almost instantly, 
and it was with a little more than her usual 
coolness that she added: “and I advise you 
to do so, too;” and immediately left the room. 

A w'eek passed and Janet heard nothing of 
Mr. Maxwell, nor did she receive any letter 
from Ashurst. This depressed her extremely, 
and a few tears were dropping over the 
violets, that she was setting out in the garden 
one afternoon, when, hearing a step, she 
hastily brushed them away, as Mr. Maxwell’s 
voice asked, “Gardening, Miss Berkley ?” 

She jumped up hastily, and he went on 
answering the surprise in her face. 

“I have seen Mrs. Berkley, and she has 
given me leave to join you here. I want to 
speak to y T ou on business.” 

“On business ! to me ?” 

“Yes, and I beg that you will pardon me if 
I say anything to wound you.” 

She bowed gravely, and leaning against a 
grape vine prepared to listen. 

“I have received a letter from your grand- 
father, in answer to one which I wrote the 
day after I last saw you. In that I men- 
tioned your strong desire to see him, and also 
said— pardon me— that you did not appear to 
me to be looking well.” 

“I am quite well,” returned Janet, “only 
weary. But about his coming ?” 

“Yes, about his coming. My dear young 
lady, forgive me, but let me ask if there has 
been any misunderstanding — any difference, 
in fact — between your grand-parents and your- 
self ?” 

“What do you mean ? A quarrel ?” asked 
the direct Janet. “No, how could there be ?” 

“How, indeed ? But I ask because Mr. 
Selwyn expresses some annoyance — seems in 
fact affronted at your wish to reside with 
your stepmother, and says that he sees no rea- 
son for Mrs. Selwyn and himself coming to 
town.” 

“No good reason,” said Janet, piteously. 
“Oh, how little he knows ! Mr. Maxwell, I 
see that you do know all about it, so there 
can be no harm in my speaking. I was left 
to my stepmother by papa, and I told grand- 
papa so, told him that it had been papa’s last 
wish and desire— I can’t imagine why — that I 


25 


asiiurst; or the days that are not. 


should live with her, and that I would do it, 
would submit myself because it was his 
wish. Grandpapa was angry, because he 
thought I did not value his opinion and 
chose to act for myself; but indeed it was 
not so. Grandmamma was a little hurt at first, 
I’m afraid, but she soon understood, and as 
for their being ‘affronted,’ as you call it, with 
me — it is not possible.” 

“Was this the sole reason for your choice ?” 
- “I had no choice. It was his command. 
What could I do but submit ? And she 
seemed so kind and gentle then that I thought 
she meant to love me for his sake, and I was 
glad to do anything to obey him, and I meant 
to love her, and indeed I tried — but — ” and 
she broke off in confusion. 

“But— failed ?” questioned the lawyer 
gently. “Unhappily, love comes not by 
trying. Mrs. Berkley has perhaps had the 
same experience.” 

“Perhaps so,” said Janet slowly, “though 1 
do not think that she tried; but, perhaps, I do 
her wrong. At all events, we are not happy, 
and I wonder, oh, I do wonder, if papa wishes 
it still !” And she clasped her hands and 
gazed upwards, as if straining to see the in- 
visible. 

Mr. Maxwell’s mouth twitched, but, with 
all possible gravity, he answered : 

“Do I distinctly understand, then, Miss 
Berkley, that it was as an act of submission to 
your father’s will, and from no other motive, 
that you prefered living here ?” 

“Why, what other motive could I have ?” 

“The city — society — young companionship.” 

“Against Ashurst and them ! Oh, Mr. Max- 
well, you don’t know grandmamma, or you 
would see how impossible that is ! No, it is 
just that I am, before all things, papa’s child, 
and must do as he wills.” 

“It is only very lately,” said Maxwell, look- 
ing down and speaking with a sort of careful 
gravity, “that I became aware of the great 
importance which you and Mrs. Berkley at- 
tach to that expression in your father’s will, 
and I think it my duty to tell you my opinion 
upon it. It appears to me that you over-esti- 
mate its import and weight.” 

“How ?” very eagerly. 

“I do not kuow if you are quite aware^of 
the circumstances under which the will was 
made ?” 

She turned so very pale that he feared she 
was going to faint, and insisted on placing 
her upon a bench and waiting a few minutes 
before he went on. 

“I, as you know, was sent for to draw it. 
Mr. Berkley was then in full possession of his 
senses, although very weak, and could speak, 
but seemed disinclined to do so. Mrs. Berk- 
ley had a paper, which she informed me she 
had written during the previous night from 
his instructions. She read the paper aloud 
to me, and at the end asked Mr. Berkley if it 
was all that he wished. He answered, very 
feebly, ‘It is !’ I then took the paper and 
read it again. My impression was, and is, 
that the provisions were what they are, from 
4 


the idea that an undivided was always better 
than a divided interest, and that therefore 
Mrs. Berkley was to have entire charge and 
control of the property.” 

“Property— but me ?” 

“I am coming to that. There was no 
especial mention of you at all, only ‘my 
daughters,’ and there was no mention of a 
place of residence— through forgetfulness, of 
course. I observed the omission, and being 
aware that your sister and yourself were not 
Mrs. Berkley’s children, asked if the young 
ladies were to reside with her. She answered, 
‘certainly, of course,’ and going up to the bed 
repeated the question. I remember her words 
distinctly : ‘Tne girls are, of course, to live 
with me, my dear.’ Your father only said 
‘yes’ very low, and turned his face as if 
fatigued. I grieve to give you such pain,” 
he interrupted himself to add, seeing that 
quiet tears were running down Janet’s face. 
She signed to him to go on, and he continued : 

“When I put the instructions into legal 
phrase, this clause was of course inserted, and 
became of equal force with the rest. But— 
and this is the point to which I want you to at- 
tend — had I been aware that Miss Agnes apd 
yourself were half sisters, and of the some- 
what complicated relations of your family, 
also of the claims of Mr. and Mrs. Selwyn, I 
should have required much clearer and more 
positive orders before inserting that clause. 
Being a stranger here I asked no questions, 
and did as I was told. I think you will see 
now, however, why I have thought it right 
to disturb you so,” looking gently at her tear- 
stained cheeks. 

Janet looked up and tried to smile through 
her tears. 

“It does not pain or disturb me,” she said. 
“I cannot help grieving to think that I was 
not there — was away amusing myself. But if 
this indeed be true — I mean, of course, if I 
can really think -the order given as you say 
with no more desire of his than that, then it 
will not be good— not binding ?” 

“Legally, perfectly good and binding, but 
morally, no. What I wish to explain is, that 
I believe that in Mr. Berkley’s state at that 
moment he would have assented to almost 
any proposition made in that way. It was 
only an assent, and I had observed how much 
weaker and heavier he grew during the half 
hour that I was in the room. I do not think 
it binding on your conscience, especially as 
the present plan seems to have failed, and 
Mr. and Mrs. Selwyn ought to be considered.” 

“You cannot think how happy you make 
me,” cried Janet. “You must tell it ail to 
grandmamma, Mr. Maxwell. If she says my 
conscience is clear, I shall be satisfied. I was 
headstrong once, but I will be guided now. 
But — ” and her face fell, “if it is legally bind- 
ing Mrs. Berkley will never let me go.” 

“I think she will,” said Maxwell quietly. 
“Mrs. Berkley has possibly been under the 
same delusion that you have. She too is 
probably aware of the ill success of t^ie at- 


26 


ashurst; or the days that are not. 


tempt. I will take it upon myself to make 
her see the matter in its proper light.” 

“Why did you never tell us this before?” 
said Janet abruptly, with sudden misgiving. 
He colored slightly, but answered with per- 
fect composure: 

“I was never consulted. Having drawn the 
will other lawyers were employed to break it; 
which they eould not do — my business was to 
sustain it, as I did. It was only lately 
that I became aware that your happiness was 
being sacrificed. In that interest I put away 
the lawyer and became the man.” 

“And the friend,” cried Janet impulsively, 
holding out her hand to him. “If you get me 
free, Mr. Maxwell, you do not know how 
grateful I shall be to you. Indeed, I do not 
deserve that you should be so kind, for I 
never liked you at all, and I know that I was 
rude and cross about that book, but you must 
forgive me.” 

“You were forgiven beforehand,” he said, 
looking down at the slender fingers that lay 
in his grasp, “but, if I get you free, you must 
give me my reward, and let me read ‘The Eve 
of St. Agnes’ to you.” 

Mr. Selwyn would have been surprised to 
find his letter so gravely treated. His express- 
sion had been, “I shall be in town next 
month, although I don’t see much advantage 
in it if my granddaughter still persists in re- 
maining with her "stepmother.” Mr. Max- 
well’s reply brought the Selwyns from the 
country in haste. What he said to Mrs. Berk- 
ley remains unknown, but the result was soon 
seen. 

In a very few days she, with the embraces and 
affectionate protestations of former times, de- 
clared that her “over-sensitiveness had made 
her shrink from acknowledging how great a 
charge she felt the guidance of two girls to 
be. That she (bewildered by grief as she had 
been at the time) had imagined, until Mr. 
Maxwell reminded her of the facts, that her 
dearest husband’s wishes and instructions on 
the question of personal guardianship had 
been as clear and imperative as on all other 
points. She had forgotten the manner of the 
directions until Mr. Maxwell had recalled it 
to her. She was so happy to be able conscien- 
ciously to gratify her dear uncle and aunt and 
to restore J anet (with a sigh) to the parents 
of her choice.” 

Mrs. Selwyn’s delight may be imagined. 

Mr. Selwyn stopped the suit for the recov- 
ery of Janet’s mother’s fortune. Janet for- 
gave, and tried to forget, and Maxwell, 
thanked and praised by all, read the “Eve of 
St. Agnes” and many another poem. 

“I advised you, six months ago, to employ 
Mr. Maxwell’s influence,” said Mrs. George 
Berkley. 


CHAPTER XII. 

“Here, by God’s rood, is the one maid for me.” 

L Tennyson. 

On a drizzly August afternoon a group of 
young men had collected around the door of 


the office, at the White Sulphur Springs of 
Virginia, to see the stages come in. One or 
two of those lumbering vehicles had arrived, 
and had deposited their hot and dusty passen- 
gers; the loiterers began to disperse, but one, 
Henry Rogers, still lingered. 

“Come Rogers,” said one of his friends, 
“let us be off, the rain is over, come down to 
the spring.” 

“No, I have to hang on a bit. These fel- 
lows say that there is another coach behind, 
and I half expect Carlton.” 

“What, Hugh Carlton? I thought he was 
in Europe?” 

“He has been there three years; but he 
came over in the last steamer, wrote to hunt 
me up, and I expect him to-night.” 

“Well, by-bye old fellow, good luck to you.” 

Mr. Rogers had not long to wait, he was 
soon shaking his and our old friend, Hugh 
Carlton, warmly by the hand, and then the 
two men looked each other over from head to 
heel, aud commented with the freedom of 
long friendship on change and improvement. 

“And now,” said Hugh, “tell me who are 
here? Any people that I know ?” 

“Yes, the Porters, Alnwicks and Fentons, 
and from New York the Chesters and Daven- 
ports.” 

“All those ! W T ell I shall be glad to see the 
Chesters particularly.” 

“There are a good many Western people, 
some very nice ones, and two lovely sisters 
from New Orleans, I think the prettiest girls 
here, but some prefer Miss Berkley from D — .’ 

“Miss Berkley. What Berkley ?” 

“Mrs. James Berkley and daughter, step- 
daughter somebody said, that’s the party.” 

“Oh ! I know her; that is, I did know her 
three years ago, before she was growm up; 
and so she is very pretty.” 

“Very handsome, quite a beauty some 
think, but not the style I most admire. If 
yOu like I can reintroduce you to-night.” 

“All right. Have you got me a room ? A 
bath and a toilet are advisable.” 

“A room ? A roc’s egg ! You are wel- 
come to a third of mine. Don’t look so 
shocked, there are fifteen hundred people 
here, and men are glad of a bed on, or under, 
the dinner table.” 

“But I am awfully sorry to crowd you so, 
Rogers. Such a bore for you !” 

“Not at all; European notions ! I’m only 
glad to have a fellow I like. Come along. 
The other is Campbell, a nice lad from 
Charleston; he won’t be in your way at all.” 

When Hugh entered the ball-room that 
night he found many acquaintances, by all of 
whom the handsome young traveller was cor- 
dially greeted; but he looked in vain for the 
fair tresses and gray eyes of Janet, when Mr. 
Rogers touched his arm, saying : 

“There, Carlton; there are Miss Berkley and 
her mother. Come and speak to them;” 
and, before he could say a word, he found 
himself bowing to two utterly unknown la- 
dies, and heard Mr. Rogers say : 

“Miss Berkley, my friend, Mr. Carlton, says 


asiiurst; or the days that are not. 


27 


that he has had the pleasure of meeting you 
formerly. Mrs. Berkley, Mr. Carlton.” 

At the first glance Hugh saw that there was 
a mistake. No possible change of time could 
have transformed Janet’s fair tints and mobile 
features into the regular outlines and splendid 
coloring of the young lady before him, who, 
bowing slightly, raised her large black eyes to 
his, but said never a word. He exclaimed, 
hurriedly : 

“I must apologize ! I told my friend that I 
had known Miss Berkley, but I now see that 
there must be two of the" same name.” 

The beauty still smiled silently, but her 
mother hastened to interpose. 

“We are very happy to know you now, Mr. 
Carlton; pray don’t apologize; such a very 
natural mistake ! Probably some other mem- 
ber of our family?” 

“Miss Janet Berkley, grand-daughter of 
Mr. Selwyn, was the young lady with whom 
I had the honor to be acquainted.” 

“My step-daughter ! Agnes, did you ever 
hear Janet mention Mr. Carlton?” 

“No, mamma.” 

“Poor little Janet, she is so reserved ! Dear 
girl, she is not here now; and you, Mr. Carl- 
ton, did I not hear Mr. Rogers say that you 
had just returned from Europe ?” &c., &c. 

Hugh, as in duty bound, asked Miss Berk- 
ley for the next dance. She waltzed well if 
a little heavily, and though she' said but little, 
she looked so handsome, and shot such 
glances from her magnificent eyes, that 
Hugh was quite content, lost all sense of dis- 
appointment, and spent the greater part of 
the evening with or near her. 

A week passed, and in the easy sans f agon 
life of the springs, a week does more for the 
growth of intimacy than a year of ordinary 
city intercourse. Mrs. and Miss Berkley laid 
themselves out to captivate Hugh Carlton, 
and succeeded — in a measure. Despite his 
travels and his knowledge of the world, he 
was very frank and unsuspicious, and took 
for natural kindliness that which was in truth 
well calculated art. 

Agnes Berkley’s beauty was in truth enough 
to have intoxicated a wiser man. Her figure, 
although rather too full for her height, was 
beautifully developed, and her eyes, large, 
soft and languishing, spoke volumes to the 
imagination, spoke so eloquently, indeed, that 
it never occurred to Hugh that from her lips he 
had never heard a syllable beyond the most 
ordinary commonplace expressions. Some 
times he tried to ask her of Janet, but she 
made him understand that her sister lived so 
entirely with the Selwyns that she knew but 
little of her; and Mrs. Berkley had a way of 
mentioning the young girl in a deprecating, 
pitying fashion, as if asking indulgence for 
some inferiority. This puzzled Hugh, who 
could not account for it, but insensibly it 
lowered Janet in his estimation. One day 
he met Mrs. Berkley going towards the post- 
ofiice, with some letters in her hand. He of- 
fered to post them for her, but she declined, 
saying that she was going that way to Mrs. 


A’s cottage, and would not trouble him, and 
rather nervously put the package into her 
pocket. One note fell to the ground. Both 
lady and gentleman stooped to pick it up, and 
as they did so Hugh saw the address, “Miss 
Janet Berkley, care of the Hon Alfred j Sel- 
wyn, Sweet Springs, Va.” 

The question that sprang to his lips was 
suppressed as he saw that she supposed the 
address unseen, but in the evening he took 
occasion to speak to Agnes of Janet, as if he 
supposed her still in D— ., and Agnes did not 
correct him. Wondering much at this, he 
presently left her and joined a group of men, 
some of whom were just arrived. One dan- 
dified youth, with an eyeglass screwed into 
his eye, was scanning the assembled belles, 
and as Hugh approached he saw his look fixed 
upon Agnes and heard him say : 

“Handsome, oh yes, very handsome, not 
like her sister though; only half sister? that’s 
it, i suppose. The other ain’t such a stunner 
as this girl, but, by George, she has a way 
with her.” 

“Who do you mean, Williams ?” asked Mr. 
Rogers. 

“T’other Miss Berkley. She hangs out at 
the Sweet, you know. Didn’t they tell you ? 
Greatest belle been there for years, and sweet 
with all; not stuck up, not fast. Ought to be 
labelled ‘real dangerous;’ just the sort of girl 
you have to knock under to. I ran away to 
save my life, for the fellows over there are 
dying like flies for her.” 

“Ask him,” whispered Hugh to Mr. Rogers, 
“who Miss Berkley is with at the Sweet ?” 

“With the old folks; grandfather, plucky 
old cock, style of Gen. Washington, you 
know. Had the gout and went to the Hot; 
most starved, and came on to the Sweet for 
grub. And then, there’s the old lady ! So 
shocked at us poor devils ! You should just 
see her face at a polka !” 

Hugh withdrew quietly, went to the office 
and took a seat in the morning stage for the 
Sweet Springs, then returniug to the ball- 
room he said with a languid air to Mrs. 
Berkley, that really all this talking and danc- 
ing was almost too much for him, and that 
he meant to go over to the Sweet for a little 
rest and cold bathing. For one instant Mrs. 
Berkley’s face clouded; then she answered 
sweetly. 

“Oh, indeed ! We shall be there ourselves 
before very long to join our party. The 
Selwyns and Janet have just arrived there, 
and of course, I could not have the old people 
long at such a place, with only Janet! We 
shall not be here much more than a week 
longer.” 

Agnes only said “going !” and “good-bye,” 
but she said it with such an accent, and such 
a look that Hugh’s heart beat quickly as he 
pressed her hand, and if he had not had a 
slight sense of fraud about her answer that 
afternoon, he would have been touched in- 
deed. 

“I believe I am a great fool,” Hugh said to 
himself the next day, as he was jolting across 


28 


asiiurst; or the days that are not. 


the long mountain that lies between the White 
and the Sweet Springs; his only companions 
being a sickly mamma with a huge negro 
maumer and two children, who sucked barley 
c indy and cried incessantly. He thought of the 
cool green lawn, and the soft dark eyes that 
he had left, and repeated with fervor : 

“I believe I am a great fool ! What have I 
come off for ? To see a girl. And why should 
I remember that girl of all the girls that I 
have seen ? I can’t help it. Across the faces 
of English and French and German and Ital- 
ian women, some of them so beautiful, that 
little pale faced child has come back to me, 
and I have seen the look of anguish which I 
gave her when I took hope away from her. I 
wonder what she is now. I am not the least 
in love with her, but — I have a great curiosity 
about her.” 

Under the impression of this curiosity, 
Hugh, having refreshed himself by a plunge 
into the magnificent bath, entered the draw- 
ing-room quietly, and looked around for ac- 
quaintances. Seeing, however, no one whom 
he knew, he took refuge in a window and ob- 
served the company. Soon he saw the object 
of his journey. She was sitting leaning back in 
a large chair, a gentleman stood behind her and 
two others in front, with cards in their hands, 
were talking and apparently disputing eagerly. 
Hugh moved slowly up the room until he got 
near enough to catch some words of the con- 
versation. They were eagerly contending for 
a dance, which each youth declared belonged 
to him, and of which the lady nonchalantly 
averred she had no distinct recollection. 

She sat listening, and now and then putting 
in a word, with a gentle, gracious indiffer- 
ence, evidently more amused than flattered, 
by the somewhat ostentatiously offered hom- 
age. 

“The Princess is in the ascendant to-night,” 
thought Hugh, “but how she is altered, and 
how improved !” 

Janet had indeed altered since he had seen 
her last. The tall shapeless figure was now 
round and exquisitely proportioned, the pale 
cheeks had a delicate rose tint; the features 
had lost the sharp thinness of girlhood, and 
taken the sweet soft outlines of eighteen. 

Very pretty and distinguished, rather than 
regularly beautiful, she looked as she sat 
there, although the pure limpid gray eyes* 
with their dark lashes, and the exquisite 
mouth, might have claimed higher praise. 

While Hugh was still looking at her, the 
gentleman who had stood all this time si- 
lently behind Miss Berkley’s chair advanced 
as the music struck up, and offering his arm, 
led her with an air of proud possession to join 
the set just forming. He was a very hand- 
some man, not young, but in the prime of 
life, with a good strong figure, regular fea- 
tures, and the blackest of hair and eyes. 
Hugh wondered vaguely if he could ever have 
seen him before, but as they passed the spot 
where he stood Janet’s eyes met his. She 
stopped, turned perfectly white, and her 
breath came with a gasp that was almost a sob 


Hugh bowed profoundly, but she offered 
her hand, and he knew by its tremulous 
touch that she remembered as well as he did 
when their hands had last met, even before 
the words that broke involuntarily from her 
lips. 

“Oh, how right you were ! how well you 
knew !” 

“Unhappily,” he answered, gravely, “but 
do not let me detain you now. or sadden your 
evening. I shall see you later.” 

“Not to-night,” she exclaimed. “To-mor- 
row you mast come to us. Mr. Maxwell,” 
she added, turning to her partner, who was 
looking with surprised displeasure at her 
agitation, “you must excuse me, I cannot 
dance again to-night, you must let me go 
now.” And she hastily left the room before 
either of the men could follow her. 

“As a friend of Miss Berkley and of her 
family, sir,” said Maxwell, turning angrily to 
Hugh, “perhaps you will allow me to ask the 
meaning of this scene V” 

Hugh felt an intense desire to knock him 
down, but. with an effort, he answered: “I 
do not know T what right you may have to ask, 
sir, but I have no objection to replying. I 
happened to be with Miss Berkley at the 
time of her father’s death, and she associates 
me with that painful occasion.” 

“The time of her father’s death,” repeated 
Mr. Maxwell. “Why I was there myself. 
Who are you, sir ■?” 

The tone was even more insolent than the 
words, and Hugh firing, answered: 

“My name, sir, is Hugh Carlton,” and in 
the well known formula added, “and I am at 
your service when and where you please.” 

He turned on his heel as he spoke and was 
walking away, when he- felt a touch on his 
arm, and saw Maxwell, pale as death, holding 
out a tremulous hand. In an equally tremu- 
lous voice he said: 

“Mr. Carlton I beg your pardon ! I did not 
know you. I meant no offence, I hope that 
you will excuse— will understand.” 

“The deuce take me if I understand a 
word,” thought Hugh. “Can the fellow be a 
coward and afraid of a shot; it looks strangely 
like it; he is shaking all over, poor devil.” 
However he gave his hand, although reluc- 
tantly, and the two parted, Hugh saying to 
himself as he walked of: 

“I wonder, now, why I hate that man so ? 
Poor wretch, he was awfully scared; how cold 
and clammy his hand felt, and his big black 
eyes shrunk up in his head, like the witch 
woman’s in Christabelle — like a snake’s ! I 
swear he looked like that moccasin of ours !” 

It was with some trepidation that Hugh 
the next morning, seeing Janet and Mrs. Sel- 
wyn taking a slow walk under the trees, ap- 
proached them, but Janet came to meet him 
smiling with frank cordiality. 

“I was very much ashamed of myself last 
night,” she said; “you must forgive me, Mr. 
Carlton; I had no notion that you were in this 
country, and your sudden appearance brought 
back everything; but to-day is too bright and 


ashurst; or the days that are not. 


29 


sweet for sad thoughts, and grandmamma will 
be glad to see you.” 

“Very glad indeed, Mr. Carlton,” said Mrs. 
Selwyn, joining them. “This silly child tells 
me that she gave you a poor welcome last 
evening. Let us sit down here on this bench, 
and tells us of your travels. The Vincents 
said that you had wandered far and wide.” 

They seated themselves under the trees, 
and for the next hour Hugh had the pleasant 
sense of being the sole object of interest to 
two ladies, the elder of whom by her kindly 
dignity and sweetness, the younger by her 
vivid and intelligent interest, drew him on to 
dwell far more on his personal share of what 
he had seen and done than he would have be- 
lieved it possible for him to do a day before. 
Whether he spoke of English lakes or Rus- 
sian steppes, of Parisian salons or Italian 
scores, Janet’s eyes brightened or melted as 
the theme demanded; her questions always 
elicited the best point, her remarks illustrated 
his own, and unconsciously, but none the less 
pleasantly, he proved the proverb, u d Vaudi- 
teur Vorattur .” 

All too quickly passed the time, and to 
Hugh, at least, the interruption of Mr. Max- 
well’s approach was most unwelcome; but he 
came with a smiling face, and, after courteous 
greetings to the ladies, said to Hugh : 

.“I really hope, Mr, Carlton, that you have 
forgiven my brusquerie of last night. I had a 
wretched headache, and qnite ‘mistook the 
situation.’ ” 

Hugh of course answered pleasantly, and 
the whole party adjourned to the house, Mrs. 
Selwyn inviting Hugh to visit her husband, 
whose gout had not gone so entirely as to en- 
able him to do more than hobble about on 
one floor. 

Hugh noticed that on their short walk to 
the hotel Maxwell placed himself at Janet’s 
side with a certain air of right, and spoke to 
her with a mingling of deference and gentle 
banter which might have been thought grace- 
ful by some, but which he thought detes- 
table. 

Some pleasant days passed. The S^lwyns 
had their carriage with them and invited their 
friends to drive. Mr. Selwyn, not being strong 
enough to hold the reins himself, sometimes 
asked Hugh to take the coachman’s place; and, 
although on one occasion he was provoked, 
by Janet’s relinquishing the box seat by his 
side to a girl of sixteen who longed for it, 
and again, at her staying at home with a sick 
child, and sending its weary mother out in 
her stead, the drives which they did take 
were charming, and the walks even more so. 
At the end of a week Hugh confessed that 
ciu'iosity was no longer his guiding feeling. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

“Conter Fkurettes.” 

[ French Refrain. 

All, however, w r as not smooth before Hugh. 
Mr. Maxwell was the thorn in his flesh, the 


gall drop in 'his cup. Hugh hated and ad- 
mired, feared and despised the mau at the 
same time. The hatred, he told himself, was 
instinctive; had there been no Janet, no jeal- 
ousy in the case, he would still have detested 
him. Why, it was not hard to say, for Max- 
well, a remarkably handsome man of forty- 
two, had read much and seen more, and had 
over his young rival the advantage that comes 
from years, when years have ripened but not 
saddened the mind, have widened the intellect 
without shadowing the spirits. His conver- 
sation, Hugh knew only too well, was admir- 
able. Without the least shade of pedantry 
he drew from books illustrations and quota- 
tions which gave a broad and general interest 
to discussions on men and things; without 
the affectation of being a man of the world, he 
drew from his knowledge of the world a 
practical wisdom which lent point and value 
to his knowledge of books. His manner, too, 
was excellent; cordial and frank to men, cour- 
teous and easy to women, and Hugh hated 
him the more, because he never lost the feel- 
ing that under this agreeable exterior he was 
always saying to him, as the detestable Litti- 
mer did to David Copperfield, “You are so 
very young, sir.” 

Hugh thought, too, that he had a better 
cause for dislike than this irritable jealousy. 
He was sure that now and then a base thought, 
a mean motive, a low suspicion, would show 
for an instant amid this clever talk, although 
any such expression was recalled and re- 
tracted with consummate skill, and was never 
tangible enough to be seized or repeated. 
Once, and once only, had this happened, 
when Janet was present, and then Hugh had 
seen a puzzled look in her eyes, an expression 
of distress on her mouth, although but for a 
moment, for it vanished as Maxwell dexte- 
rously imputed the sentiment to “worldly 
wisdom,” as to an impure source. The young 
man felt sure, too, that the other hated him, 
for although Maxwell was studiously polite 
to him, he sometimes caught his eyes fixed 
on him with a look of malevolence which 
chilled his very blood. But if he sent a de- 
fiant glance in return, Maxwell would turn 
pale, and his eyes grow dim and contract with 
a curious scared look which turned rage to 
contempt, and made Hugh call him in the 
plainest vernacular “a damned coward.” 
Janet evidently liked and admired him ex- 
ceedingly, and treated him with a pretty mix- 
ture of deference and familiarity which 
drove Hugh almost wild. Mr. Selwyn 
swore by him, prophesied his future 
eminence, and quoted him on all occa- 
sions. Mrs. Selwyn alone mingled some re- 
serve with her approbation, assented without 
warmth to her husband’s praises, and once, 
when Mr. Selwyn was expatiating on his va- 
ried talents, remarked, with unusual sarcasm, 
that she thought the chief of them was being 
“all things to all men.” 

Politics were at this time very interesting. 
Kansas, it was known, would soon apply for 
admission to the Union, and would, it was 


30 


asiiurst; or the days that are not. 


only too certain, be a cause of dispute. Mr. 
Selwyn, who had for years been a member of 
the Senate of his own State, took a keen in- 
terest in the question. There were many 
other gentlemen at the Springs equally con- 
cerned, and Maxwell, who intended to “run” 
for Congress at the approaching election, was 
always engaged in their long and frequent de- 
bates, a preoccupation which gave Hugh 
many blessed opportunities. 

On one of these days Maxwell’s attention 
was much distracted by seeing Hugh crossing 
the lawn with Mrs. Selwyn and Janet to their 
favorite seat. The spot was out of sight of 
the house, and, not until the eager politicians 
had talked themselves weary, could Maxwell 
escape from them and follow the ladies. 
What he then saw called a frown to his brow, 
although it would have sent an artist to liis 
sketch-book, for the group was charming. 

Mrs. Selwyn, her dark dress just relieved 
by her snowy cap and fleecy Shetland shawl, 
sat tranquilly knitting under the drooDing 
boughs of a large horse-chestnut tree. Near 
her Janet sat on a low bench, with her white 
robes flowing softly round her on the 
emerald lawn. She held a book from which 
she was reading aloud, and Hush bending 
over her followed with his eyes her guiding 
pencil, now and then putting in a word. The 
shade of the branches was so complete that 
the spot looked a cool green oasis in the midst 
of the blinding glare without, only an occa- 
sional fleck of sunshine penetrating the thick 
leaves, and touching the little silver curl that 
would escape from the old lady’s cap frill, and 
falling kindly on the blonde heads at her feet. 

It was clearly a lesson of some sort, and 
Maxwell ground his teeth and cursed the in- 
ventor of books. 

A less skilful man would have broken in 
upon the idyll, but Maxwell never made him- 
self unwelcome, so he quietly returned to the 
house and observed carelessly to Mr. Selwyn 
that the ladies had found a cool place on the 
lawn. The old gentleman at once went to 
join them, and Maxwell presently strolling 
thither was in time to hear his question of 
“what were they reading,” and to hear Janet’s 
reply : 

“Mr. Carlton is giving me a French lesson, 
grandpapa. He says my pronunciation is not 
very bad, and he has got such a charming 
book, ‘Les Confidences,’ bv Lamartine. Have 
you read it, Mr. Maxwell?” 

“Yes, some time ago.” 

“I read the first part last night,” she con- 
tinued; “and now we are reading Graziella, 
which is even more delightful. But I read 
very slowly, and Mr. Carlton will not tell me 
the end.” 

“Of course not,” said Hugh, smiling; “it 
would spoil your pleasure. Give me my book, 
and we wiil finish it to-morrow. I cannot let 
you go on alone.” 

“Why, there is no particular end,” said 
Maxwell, provoked at his easy tone. “Only 
the end that must come to such a romance, 


‘He loves and rides away.’ It is just the old 
song.” 

“And rides away !” repeated Janet, with 
horrified accent. “Oh, you surely do not 
mean that he left her so — I have always 
admired Lamartine so much !” 

“And his beautiful head, and white waist- 
coat, and la jeune France generally ?” said 
Maxwell, teasingly. “But you did not really 
suppose that he had made the bare-footed 
fisher-girl Madame de Lamartine, and as it 
pretends to be an autobiography — ” 

“Pretends !” cried Janet; “it is no pretence. 
Do you imagine that any one could invent 
all those beautiful tender things about his 
mother? No indeed! and for Graziella — Do, 
Mr. Carlton, tell me that what Mr. Maxwell 
says is not true.” 

“Loves and rows away, to be accurate. I’m 
afraid, Miss Berkley, that horrid as it be, it is 
true.” 

“Why what did you expect,” said Maxwell, 
in answer to her confounded look. 

“i thought,” she said earnestly, “that she 
had died — that she had known herself to be 
no fit wife for him, and that so, of her love, 
she had died, and that after along time he had 
given himself to France and fame, but not — ” 

“Not to half a dozen other loves and a rich 
wife at the end; so runs the world, Miss Berk- 
ley. After all he was but a boy, and you 
know the song : 

“A young man’s love is but light straw on fire.” 

“You quote wrongly,” exclaimed Hugh; “It 
is a young man’s hate , and after all it is but 
Davie Gellatly, the fool, who sings it.” 

“Possibly,” said Maxwell, with a slight 
shrug at his impetuosity, “but really, for 
your peace of mind, it is but a novel. Such 
delicacy and elevation of feeling are quite 
misplaced in an Italian island girl of that low 
rank. They are among the lower intelli- 
gences.” 

“I do not think so,” said Hugh; “of course 
the picture has been touched, the colors 
softened and brightened, but in the main I 
hold it a true story, and Graziella has many 
likenesses in those islands where the people 
are still true children of Nature, and of such a 
lovely nature !” 

“Children of Nature are generally savages,” 
said Maxwell, drily, “and I have never be- 
lieved in the noble savage since I saw the 
real Uncas andChicgachook in the far West.” 

“You cannot compare the Italian peasantry 
with our Indians, ” said Hugh, warmly. 
“They are the descendants of a noble race; 
even the most ignorant have a certain grace 
and refinement about them. They live 
among the ruins of a great civilization which 
insensibly inspires elevating thoughts; and 
superstitious though they be, they are reli- 
gious. The worship of the Madonna and the 
Bambino gives gentleness at least, even if they 
never rise to the highest comprehension.” 

“ Donnas are easily worshipped in those 
islands perhaps,” said Maxwell, with a covert 
sneer, which sent the blood to Hugh’s cheek, 


ashuest; or tiie days that are not. 


31 


“but it requires a very lively imagination to 
believe in the high thoughts of a fisherman 
of Procida, or the gentleness of a Neapolitan 
bandit.” 

Mrs. Selwyn saw the flushed cheeks, and 
interposed: 

“Are they not terribly revengeful, Mr. 
Carlton ? Those terrible stories of the Ven- 
detta! that is not Christianity !” 

“The Vendetta is Corsican,” said Hugh, “and 
the Corsicans area different and a sterner race 
than the more Southern islanders; and for 
Christianity, Mrs. Selwyn, do none of us ever 
feel revenge ?” 

“Why of course we do,” said Mr. Selwyn.” 
Come, come, wife ! We don’t go about with 
stilettos and stab our enemies in the dark; 
but if a man injures me, I hate him and don’t 
conceal it, and if I can give him an honest 
blow, I will; eh, Mr. Carlton !” 

And if,” said Hugh, whose face had taken 
a strange stern look “we forego our vengence 
it is not always religion, but — other con- 
s derations that restrain us.” 

“The strong arm of the law, I suppose Max- 
well would say,” said the old gentleman turn- 
ing to his friend. “Why my dear fellow! 
what is the matter? Are you ill ?” for Max- 
well, pale as death was holding by the back 
of Mrs. Selwyn’s chair and looked ready to 
fall. Hugh sprang up to help him, but he 
shrank from his touch, and recovering him- 
self, said that it was only the coming on of a 
headache, and went to the house. 

“We had better all go in too,” said Mrs. 
Selwyn, rising and taking her husband’s arm, 
“for I think the sun must be affecting all 
your heads, when you and Mr. Carlton pro- 
claim yourselves absolute heathens.” 

“Who is Mr. Maxwell?” said Hugh one day 
to Janet. “1 know that he now lives in D — , 
but he seems to have been everywhere, and 
his ways are not quite the wavs of your peo- 
ple.” 

“Ah! you see that! Yet he is a D — man by 
birth, and his father was a dear friend of grand- 
papa’s— a very dear friend, indeed, but he (the 
father, 1 mean,) married a lady from the West 
and he soon died. Then the widow went 
back to her own home, and in a shockingly 
short time, they say, married again, and so 
completely forgot her first husband, as even 
to call her child by the second’s name. She 
mver spoke to him of his father, and it was 
not until he grew up that he learnt his own 
story, and became very anxious to come back. 
He could not leave his mother then though, 
for the step-father w as not kind to her, but 
after her death, one of our chief lawyers, Mr. 
Crofts, who was travelling for his health, met 
him, and having known the first Mr. Maxwell, 
and seeing how clever the son was, he invited 
him to come to D — , and soon made him his 
partner.” 

“Oh! then, that is the reason that Mr. Sel- 
wyn thinks so much of him.” 

“One reason: but everybody thinks much 
of him. And then he behaved so very kindly 


when, you know, we were in great trouble. 
Mr. Crofts was ill, dying, and everything went 
into Mr. Maxwell’s hands, and he was so 
good! He had only been in D — a few months 
then, and grandpapa had not met him, but 
he was quite delighted to find his oid friend’s 
son such a person; and now he thinks that he 
will be the very first man in the place, in poli- 
tics and at the bar; and so do I,” ended Janet, 
with perfect simplicity. 

Hugh almost choked with mortification ! 
He pondered long on the difference between 
admiration and love. If Janet had had any 
tender feeling could she have spoken thus of 
Maxwell ? “Clever !” hang him ! of course he 
was. “So good!” he did not believe that. Bad 
men, villains indeed, often seemed good for a 
time, to serve their own purposes. “The first 
man in politics and at the bar !” perhaps so. 
But the first to her ? Oh, could he be that ? 
Of his loving her Hugh had no doubt, but, 
did she know it ? Had he addressed her ? Or 
was he trying to make himself sure before the 
enlightening words were spoken ? And what 
had he — Hugh Carlton — best do ? Should he 
speak, try to be loved for love’s sake, Or 
should he enter the lists of courtship, and 
pit himself, his youth, his pure heart and 
mind, against this clever, witty, brilliant man 
of the world; this scheming, cowardly, dan- 
gerous, hypocritical wretch ? No epithets 
were too bad for Hugh’s imagination, and all 
the time he felt his own chance so small, he 
knew himself so inferior to the other in all 
brilliant external qualities, knew so well that 
Mr. Selwyn would be on the side of his foe. 
And Mrs. Selwyn, what would she wish ? 
How came it that Hugh never thought of 
Agnes Berkley and her mother as factors in 
his problem ? 

He was so absorbed in these thoughts that 
he forgot to speak, and Janet, taking up her 
book, had begun reading again, when he 
roused himself, and seeing how strange his 
long silence had been, blundered in his con- 
fusion into the worst words possible. 

“I beg your pardon, but you set me think- 
ing. 1 dou’t like to hear you say all that of 
Mr. Maxwell. I don’t think him a good man. 
Of course he is clever, but I am sure he is bad. 
He makes me think of the witch woman in 
Christabelle; sometimes his eyes shrink from 
mine and he looks scared and wicked. I am 
sure that he is not honest and true, and I — I 
hope you do not like him.” 

This was too much. All Janet’s loyally 7 
resented such accusations, and she rose, say ing 
coldly: “You forget that I told you that Mr. 
Maxwell is our friend. I cannot listen to such 
things said of him. I don’t know what you 
mean by liking,” reddening as she spoke; “of 
course I like and admire him very much. I 
am sorry if you do not, Mr. Carlton. Good 
morning.” And she walked off to the house 
in a towering rage, leaving her young lover 
thunderstruck. 

For two days Hugh was the most miserable 
being in existence. Was there ever, he asked 
himself, such an unhappy, stupid, blundering 


32 


ashuest; oe the days that aee not. 


dunderhead as he? Could he, had he tried, 
have done anything more calculated to injure 
his own cause ? Flatly to accuse of wicked- 
ness and cowardice a man of whom he knew 
absolutely nothing, save that he was highly 
esteemed by persons whose judgment he was 
bound to respect ! To put into words sus- 
picions based on chance expressions, on mo- 
mentary looks and tones; and then to wind up 
with a hint that she — that lofty young Prin- 
cess-might like, and everybody knew what 
like in that tone meant, this man ! What 
could she think but that the meanest jeal- 
ousy, the most impertinent stupidity, had 
prompted his words ? His despair was com- 
plete. 

As for Janet, never had she been so angry. 
Was this the deference due to her grand- 
father’s friend and to her own? What possible 
ground could Mr. Carlton have for his accu- 
sations ? and what, what excuse for his last 
words ? Janet’s head rose to its proudest 
height, and her eyes shone large and bright 
as she recalled them. She like — like so — any 
man ! What right had Hugh Carlton to in- 
sult her thus. She would never, never speak 
to him again. In this state of mind she 
remained all day, took a long tete-a-tete 
walk in the afternoon with Mr. Maxwell, and 
danced with him three times in the evening, 
vouchsafing only the most distant of bows to 
Hugh when he ventured timidly to approach 
her. 

At night, however, in the solitude of her 
room she felt a little softened. Hugh’s face, 
with its clear, honest blue eyes, came before 
her; the tone of his voice, not deep and mod- 
ulated like Maxwell’s, but earnest and impet- 
uous in its candor, smote upon her ears. She 
let down all her long hair upon her shoulders, 
and as she stood combing its soft tresses, 
thought again over all that he had said. 
Could he have any reason for his charges ? 
Some tones, some expressions, some looks of 
Maxwell’s, which had jarred upon her for a 
moment, but which he had quickly made her 
forget, came back to her mind; she felt per- 
plexed and pained. She remembered the con- 
versation of a few days before. She had 
chanced to look at Maxwell when her grand- 
father and Hugh had spoken so fiercely of re- 
venge, and had seen just such a look 
of terrified malevolence come to his face as 
Hugh described. She had been startled and 
shocked for an instant; but the ghastly pale- 
ness and faintness which had quickly fol- 
lowed it had made her attribute it to physi- 
cal suffering, and it had passed from 
her mind; now she recalled it. Then she 
thought of the crowning offence: “I hope you 
do not like him !” What could Hugh Carlton 
mean ? And more, what did Mr. Maxwell 
mean ? She had never thought of him as a 
lover, but now the conviction came to her 
that he was one. Oh no ! she did not like 
him ! that was certain. Admire, esteem, re- 
spect— until to-night — she had done, but love, 
oh no, impossible ! And Mr. Carlton, why 
should he lay that accent on it ? Did he like 


her? Why did he look and speak so ear- 
nestly ? And why look so miserable that 
evening ? And, most important of all, what 
did she herself feel about it ? 

That question Janet did not choose to 
answer, but she was in a charitable frame of 
mind as she rolled her long coils round her 
head, and went to sleep, resolving to “make 
it up” with Hugh to-morrow. 

To morrow, however, Hugh held aloof, and 
Mr. Maxwell was devoted, so devoted that 
Janet saw it and shrank back. Maxwell 
adroitly retreated and talked with Mr. Sel- 
wyn, and Janet, after driving with her grand- 
mother and reading aloud to her, went off 
with a party of girls and learnt three lovely 
new crochet stitches that evening. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Matters stood thus, this day and the Lext, 
until late in the afternoon, when as Hugh was 
smoking a sulky cigar by himself on the lawn 
a young damsel tripped up to him and said: 

“Mr. Carlton, do you like picnics?” 

Hugh looked up. The speaker was a merry 
little body of about fifteen, the daughter of 
an old friend of Mrs. Selwvn’s, a widow, who 
with her son and two daughters was ther: at 
the Springs. Mary MertOD, the elder girl, 
was intimate with Janet, and this little Susy 
was the pet of the house, saying and doing 
pretty much what she pleased, by virtue of 
her high spirits and very small size, which 
made people generally take her for a child of 
eleven. In answer to Susy’s question Hugh, 
throwing away his cigar, replied: 

“That depends, Miss Susy, on who goes to 
the picnic.” 

“A very small picnic,” she answered; “but 
you see Tom has come.” 

“Who is Tom ?” 

“Why ! don’t you know ? Our cousin, Tom 
Spalding, and (whispering) he is engaged to 
sister Mary. Did you really not know ?” 

“No. How should I ?” 

“Well, I thought Janet would have told 
you. Now you see Tom and Mary would like 
a day out of doors among the hills.” 

“I suppose so !' And will you be devoted 
to me, if we go with them ?” 

“Perfectly devoted,” she answered, bury- 
ing her hands in her apron pockets, and 
twinkling her funny little eyes at him. “And 
Jack,” (Jack was her brother, a lad of six- 
teen, “will go, too, and he will be devoted to 
Janet ! and so I think we six, and the plums, 
will have a nice time.” 

Hugh’s heart leapt up, but he answered 
with perfect gravity: 

“Plums will perfect the party. Where are 
they to be found ?” 

“Not far off; over that hill,” pointing — 
“and down a road, just a good walk. Jack 
found the place the other day; its an aban- 
doned orchard, and there’s a little house on 
I the mountain with an old woman and butter- 


ashuest; oe the days that aee,not. 


33 


milk. Jack has been talking of it for a week, 
and 1 do so want an outing ! I am tired of 
this fast life myself.” And with a blase air 
the small damsel gazed at Hugh. 

“I am tired of it, too,” he answered, truth- 
fully enough. “When will the day come, 
Miss Susy ? To-morrow ?” 

“No, the day after; but keep it a dead se- 
cret,” whispering, “for if we went to-morrow, 
or talked about it, I’m perfectly sure that 
that Mr. Maxwell would go too, and be 
horrid.” 

“Would all your party think so?” asked 
IIu£h, grimly. 

“No, that’s the worst of it. Every one 
worships him except Jack and me, and he 
would go and eat up Janet.” 

“Very likely.” 

“Jack and I hate him, and it’s our party. 
Now, day after to-morrow he and Mr. Selwyn 
are to go to dine with that old Mr. Vane, who 
was secretary, or minister, or something, once 
upon a time, so we are safe. You don’t like 
him either, you know, Mr. Carlton, so I tell 
you very confidentially , and we shall be jolly.” 

“How do you know that I don’t like 
him ?” 

“Children — and angels — know every thing,” 
the sprite answered in a mocking tone. 

“So it’s settled then, you’ll go, and be 
entirely devoted to me ! And won’t mind carry- 
ing a basket a part of the way ?” 

“Mind ! I’ll enjoy it, and be your slave 
forever !” 

It was a delightful cool morning when the 
little party started; Susy according to agree- 
ment leading the way with Hugh, and the 
other four coming on together. They crossed 
the hill to the south, and then turning west- 
wards struck into a path up a mountain side, 
which after sundry winds and turns led 
them to the plum orchard, with a small 
stream running through, and woods beyond 
it. 

Merrily flew the hours. They gathered 
plums, and thought the poor sour things deli- 
cious! The young men pretended to fish, and 
talked learnedly of “flies” and mountain trout, 
and the girls looked on admiringly at their 
catching nothing. Then they sat on the grass 
and Tom Spalding and Hugh read aloud, by 
turns, “Enid and Elaine,” the “Lord of Bur- 
leigh and the Gardener’s Daughter,” Jack and 
Susy, who were not poetic, in the meanwhile 
arranging the dinner, and getting bread and 
Gutter from the little farm beyond. 

All was well again between Hugh and Janet. 
No word had been spoken of their difference. 
Maxwell had not been named, but they looked 
into each others eyes, and knew by the touch 
of each others hands, as he helped her up the 
rocky path, that they were friends— or more. 

After dinner Jack made them climb to the 
mountain top to see the sunset, and here an 
accident had nearly marred their day, for 
Janet, going too near an edge, slipped on the 
smooth grass, tried to recover herself, but 
went slipping on, unable to stop, and must 
have fallen over a tolerably high precipice if 
5 


Tom Spalding had not caught her dress, and 
by throwing himself full length on the ground, 
kept her steady until Hugh and Jack could 
come to the rescue of both. 

Even in the moment of rejoicing Hugh en- 
vied Tom the rescue, but Spalding’s head was 
full of his own sweetheart, and he thought 
nothing of it. 

The fright had sobered them all, and on 
the homeward walk it was only Susy and 
Jack who were inclined for the gay chatter of 
the morning. The other four followed slow- 
ly behind, the distance between the couples 
widening as they went, until the tete-aieie 
was complete, Tom and Mary being far in the 
rear, the two children as far ahead. The 
young crescent moon was just rising over the 
hill as they drew near the springs, and Hugh 
made his companion pause to look at it. 

“Wish a wish, and think of me,” he said 
softly, as they stood with her hand upon his 
arm. “You dou’t know how often I have 
thought of you, as I have looked at the moon 
and stars in far away lands. You know it 
was by starlight that I saw you last.” 

“I have never told you,” she said with a 
slight effort, “how I know that you were 
good to me that night. If you had given me 
the hope that I asked for when — when it was 
proved vain, I do not know how I could have 
borne it; but you had told me, and I felt that 
it was so.” 

“You cannot tell how hard it was to me to 
withhold the comfort you longed for so, but 
I knew that it would have been cruel kind- 
ness and I dared not.” 

“And you felt for me from your own sor- 
row ?” she added. 

“Yes,” he replied, “I cannot tell you now, 
some day I may, what and how great my 
sorrow had been. I had lost everything, my 

home and , but I will not talk of it, I don’t 

want to sadden to-day. This time is happy if 
that were miserable. I have never had you to 
myself before, and I have so many things to 
tell you. When I got to the White Sulphur 
and found your sister Agnes there ” 

“Hilloa ! Miss Janet, shouted Jack from the 
hotel steps, “Come along, hurry up, here’s a 
surprise for you.” 

“Confound the boy,” muttered Hugh as 
Janet quickened her steps, “don’t hurry so 
pray, surely there is time enough for any- 
body.” But Janet hastened, as Jack con- 
tinued to shout, “Make haste ! See who’s 
here \ There they come !” 

“Stay for one moment,” said Hugh holding 
her back as they reached the steps, “only one 
moment, will you not give me one of your 
flowers and say this has been a happy day ? 
His voice trembled with emotion, and Janet’s 
lips were quivering also, but she was just 
about to do as he asked, when Maxwell, who 
had approached them unseen, said : 

“Your mother and sister have arrived, Miss 
Berkley, they are eagerly expecting you. 
Will you not come in?” And, taking her 
from Hugh’s arm, he led her into the passage, 
to be clasped in Mrs. Berkley’s embrace. 


34 


asiihrst; or the bays that are not. 


The lights, the voices, the noise and bustle of 
the arrival, so confused Janet in her happy 
emotion, that for a few minutes she hardly 
knew what she was doing or saying. As 
soon as she could, however, she took a 
flower from her nosegay, and, turning to 
Hugh, who had just entered, said: “This is 
the flower that you wished, I believe, Mr. 
Carlton.” 

But Hugh did not hear her. He was bow- 
ing low to Agnes Berkley and holding her 
hand in his, and she, looking handsomer 
than ever before, with fire and feeling in her 
splendid eyes, glowing with color and warmth, 
was greeting "him with such a look, that 
Janet turned pale and drew back, confounded 
and humiliated. 

Mrs. Berkley then advanced to meet him, 
and Janet was astonished at the evident in- , 
timacy between them; for, although Hugh 
had several times mentioned them, he had 
by no means dwelt on the closeness of their 
acquaintanceship. 

Mr. Selwyn, tired with his drive and dinner, 
sent for Janet to read him to sleep, and she i 
saw Hugh no more that night. After she 
was in bed, however, Mrs. Berkley came to 
her room, and seating herself at her feet, 
said: 

“I am so happy, my dear, to* be with you ! 
once more; how do you think that your dear 
grandfather is ?” 

“Almost quite well,” Janet answered; “he is 
not strong yet, and is tired to-night, but he 
has not had an attack since he reached the 
Hot, and now he walks very well.” 

“And you yourself, my dear ? I am not 
satisfied about you, you look so pale and 
wan.” 

“Quite well, I assure you, only tired with 
walking so far.” 

“Ah, yes— walking ! And did Mr. Carlton 
make you any confidences, my dear ? Did he j 
say anything of his troubles to you ?” 

“Troubles. No.” 

“I am glad — very glad, so honorable ! ] 
Agnes now, what do” you think of her ?” 

“She looks superb,” said Janet striving to 
be cordial. “I never saw her so handsome.” 

“Ah yes, dear child, I think that she is 
better now, these things are so agitating ! for 
a time she was really unwell — I was most 
anxious, but I believe that she has almost 
made up her mind, almost, but not quite. 
When she does decide I dare say that she will 
be quite well again.” 

“What is so agitating? I don’t under- 
stand.” 

“Why, Mr. Carlton. He told you nothing ! 
of it ? I admire that so much ! I entreated j 
him to be perfectly silent. I said: ‘Mr. Carl- 
ton, not one word of this to any one, as you 
value Agnes’s peace of mind and your own 
chances !’ He proposed to her, my dear, at 
the White. She was so admired ! so courted ! 
quite the belle of the place ! So many people 


round her that I thought no one could make 
any impression; but then Mr. Carlton came 
and fell so desperately in love ! and proposed 
too soon entirely, before she had time to know 
her own feelings— foolish, was it not, my 
dear?” And Mrs. Berkley moved to get a 
better sight of Janet’s face in the moonlight. 
But she, white as her pillows, lay peifectly 
still, and “marred her friend’s point with-pale 
tranquillity,” answering only “Yes.” 

“So foolish,” Mrs. Berkley resumed; “but 
then a lover, you know ! She could not de- 
cide, and he was so pressing. At last I said: 
‘Mr. Carlton, this will never do; my child’s 
health will suffer; you do not understand the 
struggle that it is to her to own herself con- 
quered, and yet she cannot quite reject you. 
Go away now, and in the winter, or autumn, 
come back and she may relent. Not another 
word to her or to any one.’ So he went, en- 
treating me to write to him, but I thought 
best not, and stayed on at the White until we 
thought he would have gone horwe, and I was 
so surprised to find him here ! However, I 
saw the meeting to-night, and should not 
wonder if they arranged it soon, would you ?” 

Janet had seen the meeting too, and sick- 
ened at the recollection, but she lay quiet 
while Mrs. Berkley ran on in the same strain, 
endeavoring, at the same time, to extract 
some information of Mr. Carlton and his rela- 
tions with her from the girl. In this she did 
not succeed. Janet, open as daylight to the 
rest of the world, had always had an instinct 
of concealment from her stepmother, and had 
long since learnt that silence and unmeaning 
words afford the same shelter to the weaker 
human vessel, that identity of color and abso- 
lute stillness give to the insect crouching on 
its leaf from the persecuting bird. 

Nothing could Mrs. Berkley learn from the 
! wide generality of her answers and opinions,' 
but all that she wished to know she learnt 
that night; for after leaving Janet’s room she 
opened the windows of her own, which looked 
upon the piazza, and talked long and ear- 
nestly, though in most subdued tones, < with 
Maxwell, who stood without. 

Only on one point he could not be certain. 
Up to that morning he felt sure that no de- 
claration had been made by Hugh to Janet, 
but for the hours since he could not answer. 
Forced by Mr. Selwyn’s desire to relax his 
surveillance for one day, he had hoped that 
no mischief would- take place in his absence, 

! but little Susy’s adroitness had been too much 
for the accomplished schemer — and what 
might not have been said duiing that long 
day’s companionship ? 

Mrs. Berkley allayed his fears somewhat by 
telling him of her conversation with Janet. “If 
I he had said anything to her I would certainly 
have found it out,” she said. “She was sur- 
prised at what I told her, and I dare say she 
likes him, but if he had proposed she would 
have flashed out at me in denial. She had 
nothing to say.” 


ASHURST; OR THE DAYS THAT ARE NOT. 


35 


CHAPTER XV. 

“If a twister twisting would twist him a twist, 

For twisting his twist three twists he must twist.” 

I Mother Goose. 

Late as it was when Mrs. Berkley’s conver- 
sation with Maxwell ended, and although she 
was really tired, both in body and mind, the 
indefatigable little woman could uot yet allow 
herself to rest, and confessed with a sigh that 
the hardest part of her work was still before 
her. She had to tame a passionate woman, 
and teach her to be prudent. She had another 
visit to pay — it was to Agnes, whose room ad- 
joined and opened into her own. 

As she opened the door, Agues started up in 
bed, and often as her mother had seen her, 
never before had she thought her so hand- 
some. 

Tossing back the heavy masses of her hair, 
she stretched her magnificent arms to meet 
Mrs. Berkley, crying: 

“Have you done it'? Is it safe?” 

“As safe as I can make it; you must do 
your part now,” answered Mrs. Berkley. “I 
have seen her, and told her what we agreed 
upon. She was still and quiet, I*think de- 
pressed, but said very little. Since then I 
have talked with Mr. Maxwell, and he con- 
firms what he said in his letter — he thinks Mr. 
Carlton is in love with her, but cannot be sure 
of what she feels.” 

“Feels,” interrupted Agnes, “why, nothing; 
how can she, that pale-faced doll ? Is there 
any power or love or passion in her ? But I — 
Mother, I must have him; I will it, and he 
shall be mine.” And, as she said it, she 
clasped her arms around her own body, and 
rocked backwards and forwards as she sat. 

It was not good to see Agnes Berkley as she j 
was then. Her great sensual beauty, the j 
strong light in her eyes, the very movements 
of her body, would have appalled a girl like 
Janet, or a pure, proud matron like Mrs. Sel- 
wyn. Nothing like it had ever come within 
their ken. Whe looked like the women of old 
time, of an older and a heathen civilization; 
but not often under a western and a Christian 
sky is such a passion expressed. 

There was not much refinement or virtue in 
Penelope Berkley, but even she was terrified 
at the sight. Conventionality had for many 
years been the guiding star of her existence, 
and she felt now as if this young tigress were 
about to imperil all the safe and pleasant de- 
cencies of life, as if the miseries of long ago 
were coming back to her. She paused for a 
moment, and then answered sternly : “All is 
lost if he sees you look like that. Command 
yourself, Agnes. I cannot doubt that he was 
in love with vou at the White, but he isfickie 
and has turned to Janet; now you must win 
him back. It ought to be easy to you. I 
have seen her, and told her that he is await- 
ing your answer — that will make her stand 
aloof; to-morrow I will work with him. The 
rest must be for you to do; but take care, the 
greatest care, not to go too far. To a man 
like that no beauty, no passion would atone 


for a want of delicacy and dignity — in his 

wife ” 

“I understand,” said Agnes coldly. “Don’t 
be afraid, mother. The nature that I have 
from — my father — I keep hidden; not even 
you have often seen it. And the rest of the 
business— does — Mr. Maxwell make no pro- 
gress with Janet ?” 

“I cannot understand it,” said Mrs. Berk- 
ley. “He seems strangely uncomfortable and 
alarmed. Compared with any man, he ought 
to hold his own, and yet, he is afraid of Mr. 
Carlton, who has not been here a fortnight; 
he is most anxious to get him away, and have 
the field clear. I do not understand his feel- 
ing to that young man.” 

“Do you think he — cares— at all for her ?” 

“He loses no opportunity of telling me so,” 
j she said angrily; “calls her his first true love ! 
He is sure that Mr. Selwyn will favor his suit, 
but has not spoken yet.” 

“And you — do you really still wish, still de- 
sire it ? What possible good can it do you ?” 

“Power!” said the quiet little woman, 
with her eyes flashing. “At my age 
that is all that is left. Power over the girl 
that I hate, and the man who hates me ! Yes, 
and power and money, too, darling, for you 
whom I love.” And taking Agnes in her 
arms, she kissed her tenderly. 

But Agnes pushed her away, crying : “Go 
away ! — go away ! — I consent — we must do it 
to get Hugh; but, oh, if he should ever know 
it !— if he should ever know it !” 

“Would to God !” said Mrs. Berkley as she 
closed the door, “that she had never met 
Hugh, but I cannot help myself. I must !” 

And all the time Hugh was wondering how 
early on the morrow he should be able to get 
Janet to himself and finish his half spoken 
declaration, with no more notion of being 
in love with Agnes than with Mrs. Berkley 
herself. 

Not having got to rest before 2 A. M., it 
might have been supposed that Mrs. Berkley 
would have prolonged her morning nap; but 
far from such being the case, she was afoot 
betimes, and rightly guessing Hugh’s habits, 
met him “quite accidentally” as he was re- 
turning fresh and rosy from the great bath. 

“You are up early,” she said; “and quite 
right, too, it is the best and brightest time of 
the day. Agnes and I are always early 
birds, but now she is not very strong, and so 
tired from the journey that I would not let 
her get up. I feel a little anxious about her.” 

Hugh was politely “sorry to hear it,” and 
Mrs. Berkley, looking into bis eyes, and see- 
ing the most absolute indifference therein, 
decided at once on her plan of campaign. 

“I am glad to have met you alone this 
morning, however,” she said, “for, having 
rather a delicate commission to execute, 1 am 
anxious to have it over at once. Mr. Carlton, 
I hope that you will excuse my speaking 
freely ?” 

Hugh bowed, and begged her to be per- 
fectly at her ease. 

“Last night,” she continued, “after leaving 


36 


ashurst; or the days that are not. 


the drawing room, I went to my dear little 
Janet’s room.” She felt Hugh’s arm jerk at 
the word, saw the interest come to his face, 
and went unhesitatingly on. “The dear child 
has no secrets from me. Mr. Carlton, and 
seeing her look so pale and wan, I questioned 
her closely, and found that she was distressed 
and uneasy.” Hugh listened eagerly. 

“We must not be too hard on her,” Mrs. 
Berkley said, with sweetly apologizing ac- 
cents; “if there is some little tendency to — 
to coquetry about her, most girls have it you 
know, and I sometimes think that Janet has 
taken both her own share and Agnes’s, who, 
with her quiet, grave ways, is almost too 
careless about pleasing, but I am sure that 
Janet never means any harm, though, of 
course, in her position she ought to be doubly 
careful, and indeed, Mr. Carlton, she now 
feels it so.” 

“In Miss Berkley’s position,” repeated 
Hugh. “Pardon me if I don’t understand. 
What is her position ? and I don’t see any 
coquetry about her.” 

“Ah, no ! of course; I am so glad, but I was 
afraid, and, indeed, my dear sir, she, herself, 
is troubled. But, of course, if you say so, I 
am quite relieved.” 

“ ‘Relieved !’ pardon me again, Mrs. Berk- 
ley, but I am quite in the dark. What are 
you afraid of, and what is it all about ?” 

“Why, my dear Mr. Carlton, it really is such 
a delicate thing, to hint that a lady thinks 
that she has inspired a preference, but in- 
deed the poor child fearing that she had 
flirted a little, thought that perhaps it was 
best, most honest, that you should be in- 
formed uuder the seal of secrecy. I can de- 
pend on you, Mr. Carlton, for the most abso- 
lute silence ?” and Mrs. Berkley looked sternly 
at him. 

“Any secret that you and Miss Berkley see 
fit to confide to me, I shall, of course, feel 
bound to keep,” said the astonished Hugh; 
“but I have no suspicion of what it may be.” 

“Only the secret of her engagement.” 
Hugh started as if he had been shot. “Yes, 
indeed, of her engagement ! Now don’t 
breathe it; don’t hint at it; for Mr. Selwyn, 
who is a powder mine, would be in a blaze if 
he thought that we dared to speak of it, or 
even to consider it as one, until the time 
comes. You see the old gentleman has al- 
ways sworn that she never should form any 
sort of engagement until she was twenty, and 
she is not yet nineteen. But Mr. Maxwell” — 
Hugh staggered as if at a blow, but Mrs. 
Berkley went on apparently unheeding— “al- 
though having the greatest respect and defer- 
ence for Mr. Selwyn, could not see that he 
was bound to remain silent so long, especially 
as she was so gracious, and so — . Mr. Selwyn 
stormed at first, but he was so fond of Mr. 
Maxwell, that he soon gave his consent to the 
understanding, only it is not to be spoken of, 
even among ourselves as an engagement until 
she is twenty — then it will be announced and 
they will be married at once.” 


Hugh was speechless, and his tormentor, 
after pausing vainly for an answer, said: 

“You will easily see that the situation is a 
difficult one, especially as she is so fond of ad- 
miration, and has such sweetly winning ways; 
there has been trouble about it already, and 
anything clandestine is so painful you know, 
and in your case Janet thought that it might 
be best and kindest to let you know just how 
things stood, and trust to ycur honor never 
to speak even to herself of it. Now, may I 
rely upon you ?” 

“You may rely upon me,” Hugh answered, 
and turning walked away. How he felt we 
cannot attempt to describe. Bristling with 
hints, as Mrs. Berkley’s speech was, his 
sharpest sting was not from it. It was, that 
loving Maxwell, she had yet been so kind and 
gracious to him the day before, notwithstand- 
ing the things which he had said of her lover 
only a few days previously. True she had 
been angry then — but how short-lived the an-* 
ger had been. And he, who had thought her 
so true and loyal! He felt the ground cut 
from under his feet, his ideal lost, his faith in 
womanhood destroyed. He resolved to speak 
to her once more, and without openly men- 
tioning the engagement, since Mrs. Berkley 
had laid such stress on that point, to satisfy 
himself from her own lips that all was over 
between them. Then he would go, he cared 
not whither. 

Mrs. Berkley met Maxwell in the passage. 

“Is it done?” he asked. 

“My part is. Now to keep them apart. 
You and Agnes must do that.” 

“Thanks, most ingenious,” he said, looking 
her in the face, “it is seldom that a man is so 
served by his friend.” 

“You are a fiend,” she returned, hotly. 

“I never call names,” he replied, with per- 
fect composure; “but there is this to be said, 
I love the girl.” 

“You dare to say that,” she cried, flushing. 
“Well, I hate her, and therefore wish her 
no worse fate than your love. Go your way. 
I, too, love my girl and hate — .” 

“Me,” he said, laughing. “Be it so. Hate 
is sometimes better worth having than love.” 

Janet came down stairs after the breakfast 
bell had rung, and placed herself at table be- 
tween her grand-parents. Pale and set the 
young face looked, and Hugh tried in vain to 
meet her eyes; they were either fixed on her 
plate, or upon her opposite neighbor, Maxwell. 

As they rose from the table Maxwell said to 
her, “If you will ride to-day, Miss Berkley, I 
have found a horse that will carry you nicely. 
I saw it at Mr. Vane’s yesterday and ordered 
it here. Will you try it this morning ?” 

She was declining listlessly, when seeing 
Hugh standing by Agnes, she changed her 
mind, agreed to go, and said that she must re- 
turn to her room at once to make some altera- 
tion in her habit, which she had not worn for 
some time. 

As she was going down the long corridor, 
Hugh, who had not heard what had passed 
between her and Maxwell, followed her, for 


ashurst; or the days that are not. 


3.7 


he was bent on securing a last interview, and 
said : 

“Miss Berkley, will you walk this morning; 
jou said yesterday that you would like — ” 

“Yesterday,” she interrupted, with a laugh 
meant to be gay, “yesterday and to-day are 
such very different things — you surely don’t 
imagine that one wants the same things to- 
day as yesterday.” 

“I am undeceived,” said Hugh, shocked at 
what seemed heartless levity. “Neverthe- 
less, pray grant me this walk ?” 

“ Non , merely I was tired to death walking 
yesterday, and to-day — I am engaged.” 

“So I have heard,” he answered, amazed, 
“yet let me, for this once, speak to you of 
myself, and — ” 

Treacherous! she thought, and interrupted — 

“Very sorry, but really I have no time, 
good-bye.” And, locking herself into her 
room, choked down her tears, and rushed into 
preparations for her ride. 

Hugh stood pained and dismayed; then, 
“going off with the rebound,” joined Agnes, 
and, after dinner, approaching the Selwyns 
took a ceremonious leave of them. He was 
obliged, he said, to start immediately for 
Mississippi, and did not know when be should 
have the pleasure of seeing them again. To 
Janet he hardly spoke, but be could not help 
the clasp of his fingers, and the appealing an- 
guish of his eyes. They angered her yet 
more because she thought them deceitful as 
his conduct. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Chateau qui parle, et femme qui econte. 

Nearly two years had passed, and again 
Janet Berkley was on the porch of her old 
home at Ashurst. It was a cold December 
evening, and with a large shawl wrapped 
round her she was walking rapidly up and 
down, evidently for exercise. 

She looked paler and thinner than she had 
done even in her early girlhood, and there 

were lines about the brow and around the 
sensitive mouth, that told of fatigue and 
weariness as much of mind as of body. The 
expression too was quite different; gentle, but 
no longer serene; the indescribable change 
from girl to woman could be seen in every 
feature. 

She paused as the door opened and her 
grandmother appeared. 

“Is he awake ?” she asked; “there are no 
papers, for the mail has not come yet; but I 
can read the new Blackwood.” 

“Not yet,” answered Mrs. Selwyn; “he is 
still asleep, and, my darling, 1 must speak to 
you.” 

“Not out here, grandmamma, it is much 
too cold;” and drawing the old lady into the 
house, she stopped before the fireplace in the 
low hall, and glancing at a side door, added: 
“Let us sit here, we shall not disturb him.” 


“3eating Mrs. Selwyn in a large chair she 
put herself on the rug at her feet, dropped 
her shawl, and began pushing at the burning 
logs with a piece of lightwood. 

“Jeannie, it is of no use to try to put it off,” 
Mrs. Selwyn said at last with evident effort. 
“Your grandpapa, my child, is very anxious 
about Mr. Maxwell; you know how much he 
has the marriage at heart; have you thought 
it over, my dear ? In three days you know 
that he will be here, and Mrs. Berkley and — ” 

“I know, I know,” interrupted Janet ner- 
vously. Have I thought it over ? Why, dear 
grandmamma, there is not an hour, not a 
minute of the day when I do not think of it. 
If I only knew what I ought to do !” 

“Ought, my dear ?” 

“Yes, ought— it is only that. Ought I to 
marry to please grandpapa ? Ought I to take 
a man’s love and give none in return ?” 

“My dearest, what a thing to say ! ‘Give 
none in return !’ You must know that I 
would not for the world you should do that, 
and your dear grandfather, if he rightly 
understood, would not press you as he does.” 

“But grandmamma, if I wish to marry 
him?” 

“xMy child, I do not understand. How with- 
out loving can you wish to marry; him ?” 

“Ah, that’s the riddle,” and, burying her 
face in her arms, she whispered so low that 
her own ears hardly heard : 

“As a shield, as a guard, to help, to keep 
me from — . Ah, dear God, be merciful, 
and show a poor girl what to do !” 

For many minutes she remained in this atti- 
tude, trying, praying to see the right, and 
Mrs. Selwyn, leaning back in her chair com- 
pletely puzzled, gazed at her silently. At 
last a slight movement was heard in the next 
room, and presently the door opened and a 
servant said : “Maussa is wake up and want 
Miss Janet.” 

Then Mrs. Selwyn spoke. Taking the girl’s 
hand, she said very tenderly : 

“Janet, all your life long you have thought 
of our pleasure before your own. But now at 
this moment you must think of yourself, and 
think well. I feel as if I were a traitor to 
your grandpapa, in advising against his 
wishes, now in his weak condition; but my 
darling, do not in pity to that weakness do 
what you might regret. In choosing a hus- 
band, child, a woman must consult her own 
heart, and marry only the man that her own 
heart approves.” 

“It is my own weakness that I pity, grand- 
mamma, not grandpapa’s.” And first kissing 
her grandmother’s cheek, she passed into the 
next room. 

Mr. Selwyn was a piteous sight. A stroke 
of paralysis, six months before had changed 
the strong, hale old gentleman into a hope- 
less invalid. One leg lay completely dead on 
the couch and the left arm was not much 
better. His mind was still clear, his will as 
strong as ever, and his temper fearfully irrita- 
ble. The household lived in fear of provok- 
ing some burst of rage which might exhaust 


38 


ashurst; or the days that are not. 


the enfeebled frame, and wife and grand- 
child watched every word and tone. The 
servant was hardly ~out of sight before he 
began : 

“ Well, J anet, have you made up your mind ? 
Maxwell is coming next week, and you must 
not keep him waiting for your answer. I 
hope you are going to be sensible ?” 

‘T hope so, grandpapa, but what is sensible 
now ?” she asked, too accustomed to discuss 
the subject with him to feel any sensitive- 
ness about it, and willing to while away an 
hour of the tedious invalid life, even by con- 
versing on her private affairs. 

“Why, child, to be done with nonsense and 
accept him at once. At once, indeed; why do 
you know,” very solemnly as if she could 
possibly be ignorant of the fact, “that it is 
sixteen months that Maxwell has been hang- 
ing by the eyelids in this way ? How long do 
you expect him to stand it ?” 

“Indeed, grandpapa, you know perfectly 
well that I refused Mr. Maxwell positively.” 

“Positively! Pooh — pooh. Who ever heard 
of a chit like you being positive. Old Poz— 
is for old men like me, child,” and the poor 
old gentleman laughed feebly at his little 
joke. 

“Decidedly, then.” 

“But I did not choose it to be decided, 
child. I said, ‘Maxwell trust to me; the girl 
does not know her own mind — let her think 
it over, and I wager she’ll come round;’ you 
don’t mean to make me lose my bet.” 

“At least it is your fault, then, that he 
hantrs by the eyelids,” said Janet. 

“Not a bit, not a bit; last July, you know 
yourself, that when he came again you were 
not positive. I remember it perfectly, though 
you may think my memory weak,” (he was 
getting "angry now,) “it was the day after 
your stepmother wrote about that girl’s en- 
gagement”— -JaDet winced but sat still — “the 
very next day, and you said, ‘If Mr. Maxwell 
will give me time, I will try to return his 
affection.’ Last July, Janet, six mouths ago; 
aud they are all coming next week — Mrs. 
Berkley and Agnes and the young man, I 
forget his name, and all — Oh, Janet, I 
should die happy if I saw you in Maxwell’s 
hands.” ' 

“Dear grandpapa, you are not to die for ever 
so long, and don’t you think you will live 
more happily with me all to yourself, and no 
stranger in the way ?” 

“No stranger,” said the old man, looking 
suspiciously at her; “what do you mean by 
thatV Would you like some one not a 
stranger? Has that young fool of Ralph’s 
been talking any nonsense to you ?” 

“Who, Allan? Oh, no, he has not indeed!” 
blushing deeply. 

“I don’t know. He was over here last 
week, and I told him you were to marry Max- 
well, and he broke out and raved. He said 
he had never spoken to you, but hoped and 
so on. I told him that you were for his bet- 
ters, and that he had better mind his books.” 

“His betters!” indignantly. “Poor, dear 


Allan! No, grandpapa, he is only a boy now, 
but in a few years there will be no one better 
than Allan.” 

“You are sure it’s not Allan ?” 

“Oh, no! Please don’t say such things. I 
don’t want to marry anybody.” 

“There was Belton now, but you refused 
him; and certainly you would not have Ains- 
worth — and let me see — at the springs — ” 
But here Janet jumped up and cried with a 
forced laugh: 

“Stop, stop, grandpapa. You must not insult 
the shades of my lovers. If I marry any one 
I suppose it will be Mr. Maxwell. Give me 
one week — only one week more, and 1 will if I 
can.” She squeezed the old man’s hand and 
ran out of the room. He complacently told 
his anxious wife that J anet was coming round, 
and little dreamt that the poor girl on her 
knees in her own room was weeping a pas- 
sion of tears, as she thought and pra T ed, and 
thought and prayed again. 

Well might she weep and think and pray, 
poor child; for the question which perplexed 
her now was, not whether she did or did not 
love Mr. Maxwell — the answer to that she 
knew only too well, but whether in refusing 
him she was not secretly cherishing a love for- 
her sister’s betrothed. In the July previous 
Hugh had fallen victim to Agnes’ faseiua- 
tions, and in one week they would 
both be at Ashurst. Would it not 
be better, Janet asked herself, to 
give herself to this man who loved her, and 
so put honor and duty doubly between her 
and Hugh Carlton, for this at least she could 
not doubt. She had given her heart utterly 
away, the bird in her bosom was flowp, and 
instead of being gathered reverently and ten- 
derly into another’s breast, it wandered cold 
and forlorn without. And there was Max- 
well, with his full devotion, his passionate 
worship, which left her totally unmoved. 
Aye, but would it always do so ? A loving 
husband, she had heard, could always win 
his wife’s heart, even if he had failed to 
touch it as a lover. Was this true ? she won- 
dered. If she married him now in esteem 
and respect, would not love come in time, so 
that she should be able to meet Hugh’s trou- 
bled glance and Agnes’ triumphant eyes 
without the sickening, jealous envy, which 
she now felt would make their presence a 
misery to her ? 

Would not a husband be, !as she had said to 
her grandmother, a shield and a guard to 
her? But if so, why this husband? She 
thought of her gallant young cousin, of other 
men who had addressed her, but she felt that 
for none of these;; had she that admiration, 
that intelligent sympathy, which she had for 
Maxwell, and to which she turned as the best 
substitute for true affection. 

Maxwell’s conversation always interested 
her; his acquirements, his mind, were far be- 
yond those of the other men whom she knew. 
With him there might be no love, but there 
would at least be an intellectual life, which 


ashurst; or the days that are not. 


39 


Janet’s developing mind was beginning to 
value and appreciate. 

But, then, did she esteem and like as well 
as admire him ? And here Janet hesitated. 
She could hardly tell why, but she did not 
like him. He inspired her with a mistrust of 
his heart, which a woman seldom feels when 
that heart is devoted to her. Something about 
him, she knew not what, rang hollow to her 
touch. In his most brilliant conversation 
there was a strain of mockery — in his highest 
thoughts a touch of falseness. She recalled 
these perceptions — they were nothing more — 
with alarm. She thought how inscrutable 
.were his jet black eyes, in which no expres- 
sion, save that of power, ever shone. She re- 
membered the opinion which Hugh had ex- 
pressed of him at the Sweet Springs, and in- 
voluntarily the beseeching glance with which 
he had parted from her. The true blue eyes, 
that seemed to ask for love, came before her. 
But wit ' the recollection came anger, as she 
thought that even then he had been Agnes’ 
lover, and falser far than the man whom he 
had accused. lndiguation and mortified 
pride came to her aid, and the battle began 
again. 

A few days of this mental struggle so told 
upon Janet that when Maxwell arrived, first 
of the expected guests who were to spend the 
Christmas at Ashurst, Mrs. Selwyn unasked, 
interceded with her husband for a delay in 
Janet’s decision, and told Maxwell himself 
that “the child must have time to get accus- 
tomed to him.” 

Maxwell had nothing to do but to acqui- 
esce, which he did with his usual good grace, 
but he gnawed his black moustache, and 
cursed in his heart at Mr. Selwyn’s old fash- 
ioned notions, which had made him insist on 
gathering all his kinsfolk together, for this, 
which he fully expected to be his last Christ- 
mas upon earth. 

The Vincents had invited Hugh Carlton, 
and he was to arrive at their house from the 
West, at the same time as Mrs. Berkley and 
Agnes were to come from town. Maxwell 
felt very uneasy, and determined to lose no 
time in informing Mrs. Berkley of the danger, 
and to exercise the utmost vigilance himself, 
in preventing any meeting between Janet and 
Hugh. 

In the meantime he exerted himself to 
make the best use of his time. Never had he 
been so clever, so amiable, so interesting. 
The neighbors invited to meet him were de- 
lighted, Mrs. Selwyn shaken, and her hus- 
band triumphant; only Janet grew paler and 
paler and shrank into herself. At last, only 
two days before Mrs. Berkley and Agnes 
were expected, the Ralph Selwyn girls in- 
sisted on carrying Janet over to spend those 
days with them, “because when would they 
ever get her again ?” and she, glad of a little 
quiet and absence, felt almost light-hearted 
as they cantered off among the wintry trees. 

Two. tranquil days passed. Poor Allan had 
taken himself and his despair to town, so 
there was no love-making to be feared, and 


Janet pleased by the kindly home-love around 
her, and Herr M filler’s enthusiastic delight, 
felt soothed and tranquil, luxuriated in the 
old man’s music and put troublous thoughts 
away from her until the third day, on the even- 
ing of which she was to return home. Then 
Mr. Selwyn and his sons rode off to a grand 
hunt given in honor of Mr. Maxwell, the girls 
drove to pay some visits, and Janet who bad 
begged to be left quietly with her aunt, was 
sitting alone in the drawing room in a soli- 
tude very unusual in that populous house, 
waiting until Mrs. Selwyn should return from 
her plantation visits, when the door opened 
and Hugh Carlton stood before her. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

“A quattr’ ocelli.” 

Janet sprang up as Hugh Carlton entered, 
white to the lips, but the instinct to repress 
all sign of emotion comes as rapidly to some 
women as the emotion itself, and she walked 
down the long room to meet him, with no 
more visible excitement than the presence of 
any unexpected visitor, might have caused, 
saying, easily : 

“How do you do, Mr. Carlton ? We did 
not exDect you for some days. Have the 
others come?” And she forced the hand 
which she held out to him to be steady and 
firm. But it was no steady hand that clasped 
hers, and Hugh’s voice was hoarse, and his 
face flushed as he answered : 

“No. I came first, last night; and hearing 
that you were here, came to see you.” 

“You are very kind,” she answered coldly. 
“My aunt will be glad to see you;” and she 
took hold of the bell rope, but Hugh, hastily 
interposing, said : 

“No, don’t ring. I don’t want to see her. 
It is to you yourself that I must speak !” 

“To me !” with deepening color. “I hope 
there is no bad news — is — Agnes well ?” 

Yes, I suppose so, but great heavens I must 
tell you, Janet,” grasping her arm roughly. 
“Tell me the truth, are you going to marry 
Maxwell ?” 

“What right have you to ask ?” she cried 
flushing crimson and shaking off his hand. 
“What possible concern is it of yours ?” 

“What right ? What concern ? All, every- 
thing. Answer me, for God’s sake.” 

But Janet was far too angry to listen to any 
such appeal. He trifled with me once, she 
thought, does he mean to do it again ? and 
drawing back a step she answered haughtily : 

“You are not my brother-in-law yet, Mr. 
Carlton. I cannot imagine what your right 
can be, but I will answer you. I do mean 10 
marry Mr. Maxwell,” a resolution formed then 
and there. 

“Oh, Janet, do not say so, do not I entreat 
you; you do not know all, and I, what shall I 
do ?” 

“What shall you do ? Why nothing. My 


40 


asiiurst; or the days that are not. 


marriage can be of no great consequence to 
you.” 

“Nothing in all the world is of so much,” 
he answered, sadly. I see that you are angry 
with me, but I cannot help it. Janet, look at 
me; trust me; I know that you could not love 
me. When I found that it was so I went away, 
left you, as you desired; but yet I have some- 
times doubted. Now, at this moment, with 
your whole fate depending on it, I must know 
the whole truth. You say that you are going 
to marry Maxwell; but do you love him ? 
Answer me by all that you hold sacred. 

Janet was so excited that she hardly un- 
derstood all that Hugh’s speech implied, but 
the solemnity of his manner and of his last 
words awed her. He stood before her with 
his hands clasped tight over each other, and 
his eyes fixed on her, with a look of such 
anguish as she had never before seen. Hesi- 
tatingly, she answered: 

“I do not understand you, but I will tell 
you the truth. 1 have not yet promised to 
marry Mr. Maxwell, but I mean to — to-mor- 
row. No, I do not love him, but I respect 
and admire him, and — I wish to marry him.” 

“And is that all— -really all ?” cried Hugh, 
his face brightening. 

“All ! is it not enough ?” 

“Thank God, there is yet time. I can save 
her; it will not break her heart,” he exclaimed, 
and sinking into a chair, he covered his face 
with his hands, in an earnest thanksgiving. 

“Break my heart,” she repeated wonder- 
ingly, and then stood by him in silence, think- 
ing. “It is broken already if that be all.” 

With a great effort for composure Hugh 
rose, and, offering her a chair, said: 

“If what I have to tell you shocks you, for- 
give it, because it must be u greater shame 
and grief for me to tell than for you to hear, 
and if such a story is not fit for your ears, you j 
may be sure that, as Maxwell’s wife, such, 
and worse, would come home to you every ! 
day. Do you remember that long ago when 
we first met, and I showed you the snake that j 
had frightened you so dead, I told you that 
man was the proper type to express deceit 
and crime ? You were pained, and told me, in 
your sweet girl voice, that we should love all 
God’s creatures. Yes, you see how well I 
remember every word that you ever said to 
me.” 

He paused with emotion. She made a little 
sign with her hand, and he continued : 

“Well, the man — worse than any serpent of 
whom I thought then— was Maxwell.” 

“Mr. Maxwell !” 

“Yes; but I did not know it. You may re- 
member that the next day, when the news 
came of your father’s death, I told you that 1, 
too, had not long since lost my father V” 

“I remember,” she said gently. “You were 
very good to me.” 

“Good ! My poor child, I had better have 
left you in the pool than have saved you for 
that man ! I did not tell you that I had also 
lost a sister.” 

“No, but Mr. Vincent told grandpapa so.” 


“It is of her that I must speak. She was 
my half sister, six years younger than I, and 
the loveliest creature you ever saw, but so 
simple, so childish that we hardly knew if 
her mind were not wanting. Weak and un- 
developed it certainly was. She was only 
twelve when her mother, a New Orleans wo- 
man, who had been the kindest of mothers 
to me, died, and she herself was ill of a long 
fever. My father never went back to the city 
after that, but lived entirely on a plantation 
that he had in a very lonely, wild part of the 
country. 

There were no neighbors of our own class at 
all, and Lina had no companion but an old aunt 
of her mother’s who lived with us, who was 
very deaf and infirm. She was sixteen and 
as beautiful as an angel, but had no more 
knowledge of the world than a child of ten.” 
And Hugh stopped and wiped his brow. 

“Go on,” Said Janet sofily, she began to 
divine. 

“She was not to blame,” he cried fiercely. 
“She was innocent as an angel, as Eve 
when she knew not good from evil, but she 
| was left to herself. I was away at college, 
her aunt aged, my father a "sad, broken- 
1 hearted man. A party of men came to a vil- 
li lage near, surveying for a railroad. A stranger 
was hardly ever seen in that country; ours was 
the only good house. My father invited them, 
they came, one of them saw the child, her 
beauty, her simplicity, waylaid her in her 
solitary walks in the woods, and persuaded 
her to fiy with him.” 

“My father pursued and found them, and 
when she told him, with fond simplicity, that 
M. Alford was her husband, that she had 
been married three days before, the villain 
told him, with a laugh, that a man did not 
marry an idiot ! She had been fooled by a 
mock ceremony; he was tired of her already, 
her father could take her if he pleased, he 
wanted her no more.” 

“Oh !” cried Janet, starting up with her 
cheeks aflame; “did he not kill him? Strike 
him dead, instantly ?” 

“Listen— the old man sprang upon him, 
they grappled and fell, but his grasp relaxed 
| and his arm sank powerless. Paralysis had 
i come on in the moment of revenge, and when 
I, summoned by my aunt, hurried home, the 
villain had vauished from the country, my 
father lay dying in one room, and she— the 
I unfortunate — in another.” 

“Oh, Hugh, Hugh, I am sorry for you,” 
cried Janet, with the tears running down her 
cheeks, and forgetting, in the impulse of con- 
solation, that she had never called him so 
before. She laid her slight fingers on his 
clenched fist, repeating softly : “Hugh, I am 
so sorry for you.” 

“God bless you, my darling,” he said tend- 
erly, but you do not yet know all. My 
father lived but a few hours after I had 
! reached him. His speech and his mind both 
| were so affected that it was with the utmost 
| difficulty that I could gather what I have told 
i you. And my poor Lina— poor innocent 


asiiurst; or the days that are not. 


41 


victim, most happily lived but a few days 
more. At first she did not comprehend what 
evil had been done, but in her dying 
moments, as they say it often happens to the 
feeble mind, hers seemed to brighten, her un- 
derstanding became clearer, and she died 
charging me never to attempt to revenge or 
punish the wrong which had been done her. 
She forgave her own injuries, but lamented 
the shame to us, and conjured me to keep 
forever secret the disgrace which she had 
brought upon her name. Say, Janet, say that 
she was innocent.” 

“Most innocent, most unhappy, most foully 
wronged. Oh, I hope, 1 hope that you were 
gentle with her !” 

“I hope so,” doubtfully. “I tried to be, 
but, oh shame! and shame by a woman, is 
hard to bear. But I promised all she asked, 
and she died happy. 1 tried what I could to 
find out the man, but in vain. My aunt 
knew nothing but the facts of the flight, the 
pursuit and the miserable return. She sup- 
posed that it had been one of the gentlemen 
who had dined at the house a few weeks be- 
fore. She told me what names she could re- 
member, but her deafness made her very un- 
certain. I inquired in the village, and found 
that one of the party, who, the innkeeper 
said, did not seem to be an engineer, had 
stayed for some time after the others had left. 
He believed that his name was Alford, but 
could not be quite sure. I wrote to the pres- 
ident of the company, to ask if there were a 
person of that name in its service. He said 
‘No,’ and so the quest— and for what purpose 
was I making it ? — failed. One man only had 
seen the villain, the boy who drove my father 
in his pursuit; he was the son of my sister’s 
maumer, and between him and the old woman 
they kept it quiet. I swore them to secrecy, 
and went back to finish my course at college, 
meaning afterwards to go to Europe. On my 
way there, Janet, I met you, and took with 
me the memory of the dear little face that 
might, had you so willed it, have made earth 
all heaven to me; but— don’t cry so dear— 
what do you say ?” For Janet, through her 
streaming tears, cried : 

“Oh Hugh, if you loved me, why did you 
leave me and give yourself to Agnes ?” 

“Janet, were you not secretly engaged to 
Maxwell? Did you not send me word that 
you loved him, and beg me to go ?” 

“I ! oh, never.” 

“Janet, my dearest, my treasure, can it be, 
is it possible that you love me ?” and he 
clasped her in his arms. 

For one moment she lay upon his breast, 
with his cheek pressed to iier’s— then pushing 
him from her she cried: 

“Ah Heaven — Agues — you are her’s.” 

“No — before God I am not,” he cried vehe- 
mently “Listen, Janet; some most foul 
treachery has been here, and I will not have 
our two lives spoiled.” 

“Tell me,” she said trembling, “who told 
you that I was engaged to Mr. Maxwell?” 

“Your mother; you remember that evening 

6 


when I begged you to say that to you it had 
been a happy day, how you left me without 
a word ?” 

“Because he — Mr. Maxwell — came between 
us, and when I offered you the flower you did 
not take it, but held Agnes’ hand and looked 
at her.” 

“Because she looked at me” — with a shud- 
der. 

“That night Mrs. Berkley came to my room, 
and told me that you had proposed to Agnes 
at the White — that you were desperately in 
love, and were waiting until she could decide 
for your answer.” 

“And you believed her?” 

“Had you ever said one word to me? Be- 
sides, I had seen that look.” 

“Janet, she is a devil. This is all her work.” 

“Was it not true ? Oh, Hugh !” 

“Was what she told me next morning true ? 
That you had confided to her that you feared 
I was attached to you; feared you had been 
too gracious, seeing that you were already 
engaged; thought it honorable that I should 
be told how things were, but begged me not 
to say a word of it, even to you, as Mr. Selwyn 
had ordered that it should not be mentioned 
for two years ?” 

“You could not have believed it?” 

“I did. It seemed honorable, and I knew 
what an upright little soul you were. I tried 
to get one word with you, but you would 
not—” 

“I thought you were treacherous to both 
Agnes and me.” 

“And so I went away as you bade.” 

“Hugh,” said Janet, with the calmness of 
despair, “I see it all now. Agnes loved you, 
and my stepmother has parted us. We have 
fallen into a trap, and there is no help for 
us.” 

“But there shall be help,” he exclaimed, 
trying to clasp her again, but she eluded his 
grasp. “Do you suppose that I will submit 
to this ?” 

“Agnes loves you,” she replied. 

“I fear she does,” he returned. “I cannot 
tell you, Janet, the ways, the wiles that they 
used to draw me to her.” 

“Not she; only her mother.” 

“Chiefly, I believe; but, oh, Janet, she was 
very willing. God help me ! I believe she 
does love me; and I — ” 

“Will love her, too, when you forget me,” 
she interrupted. “Hugh, 1 will not let you be 
dishonorable for me or break another heart. 
I thought^an hour ago, that mine was dead, 
but now i feel that I can be happy without 
you, knowing that you did love and did not de- 
ceive me. Go on, now, and tell me when you 
discovered, what I already know, that Mr. 
Maxwell is the murderer of your sister and 
father !” 

“Two hours ago,” he answered. “I brought 
with me from Mississippi the servant of whom 
I told you, and this morning he begged to go 
to the hunt with Mr. Vincent’s drivers. As 
we rode up to the meet Maxwell met us. 
Presently Cyrus pulled my sleeve, and begged 


42 


ASHURST; or the hays that are not. 


to speak to me. I saw that he was violently 
excited, and went apart with him. He told 
me that ‘that man was Mr. Alford !’ and 
pointed to Maxwell. I could not believe it, 
and assured him that he was mistaken. He 
was very much excited, but very positive, and 
told me to look at the back of his neck and 
see if there was not a scar there; that, in his 
struggle with my father, he had fallen back on 
a brass fender, and cut his neck deeply. Janet, 
I cannot tell you how I felt when, riding 
up behind the wretch, I saw, half hidden 
by his collar, iust such a scar as Cyrus ex- 
pected to find ! How I did not shoot him 
then and there I know not, but Lina’s voice 
and charge and my oath came to me, and I 
turned and rode away. Then I thought of 
you. Could 1 let him have you too ? 1 told 
Vincent that I felt suddenly sick, it was true 
enough, and left the hunt. 1 determined on the 
way here that if you loved, really loved him, 
I would be silent forever to you and to all ex- 
cept to himself, but that I would tell him that 
I knew of his villany and would expose him 
if ever he gave me cause by making you un- 
happy.” 

“Oh, Hugh ! would you have let me marry 
him ?” with a shudder. 

“If you had loved him what could 1 have 
done ? But, thank God, you are safe.” 

“Yes,” said Janet wearily, “safe from him, 
and now I must make my self safe from you. 
Go, Hugh, we must never meet again; you 
must keep your troth to Agnes, and I will tell 
grandmamma that I cannot marry him, and be- 
tween us we will find some way to pacify 
grandpapa. Your sister’s secret shall be safe, 
and as for me I shall do very well now that 1 
am not sore and wounded any longer. Good- 
bye.” 

“You cannot really determine so, Janet.” 

“I must,” she said faintly. “I cannot ruin 
another woman’s life, much less my 
father’s daughter’s. Love is so much to a 
woman, Hugh, and it is only a little part of a 
man’s existence. Good-bye, my friend; let us 
be glad that we know each other now, and 
that we can be happy and good apart.” 

“I can be neither happy or good, Janet,” 
he said gloomily, taking her hand. “I see, 
now, that this is a conspiracy between Max- 
well and your stepmother, and they shall 
repent it; before God, they shall repent it. 
Good-bye, but only for to-day.” 

Once more he caught her in his arms, and 
kissed her passionately. She broke away 
from him, and he running out into the hali 
and down the steps, threw himself upon his 
horse and galloped off. 

“Maussa ! Maussa ! you leave your whip, 
you leave your whip,” shouted the boy who 
had been holding the horse, holding up a 
hunting whip with a butt handle, and 
curiously Dlaited leather thong. 

“Run after him with it,” said Janet, notic- 
ing the curiously twisted leather, with that 
strange attention to trifling detail which 
sometimes accompanies what would seem to 


be all absorbing excitement. “Run after 
him, and you will catch himat the gate.” 

The boy ran, shouting; she saw the 
whip thrust into Hugh’s hand, and then 
turned back into the house, feeling as if the 
whole world had changed and turned in the 
last hour. ' Realizing, that for her, life was at 
an end, but feeling somehow infinitely freer 
and lighter than she had done when expect- 
ing to share it with Maxwell. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

‘ I guess ’twas frightful the e to see.” 

L Coleridge. 

An hour later Janet, dressed in her habit, 
met Mrs. Ralph Selwyn in the hall. 

“My dear,” said that lady, “are you going 
to ride ? I thought that you mcaut to stay 
with me this morning.” 

“I must go home, dear aunty — I am obliged 
to go at once.” 

“But until the girls come back there is no 
one to go with you, and there is not a horse 
! in the stables except your own.” 

“I don’t in the least mind going alone. Say 
| good-bye to the girls for me, and please don’t 
| try to keep me, Aunt Carry, for indeed I have 
I to go.” 

Mrs. Selwyn looked wonderingly at the 
i flushed face and excited eyes, and said kindly: 

“I will not try to keep you, dear, but I am 
sorry to have been detained so long by those 
whooping-cough children this morning, for I 
wished to have a little talk with you. Your 
uncle was telling me last night of what your 
grandfather had said to him of Mr. Maxwell. 
You look pale and worried, Janet, as you 
never looked before. My dear child, I hope 
that my poor brother does not harass you 
about him. 

“I have been worried, Aunt Carry, but it 
will soon be over now,” 

“Because,” proceeded the kind lady, “you 
know, my dear, your grandfather is not his 
former self now, and, rather than you should 
be teased into what you do not like, your 
uncle would help you to pacify him.” 

“I hope it will not be necessary, aunt.” 

“Why, do you mean to accept Mr. Max- 
well ?” 

“No, no; I hate him !” A wild, fierce light 
shone in Janet’s eyes, such as had never been 
there before, and her aunt said, soothingly : 

“No, no, my dear; no need for hate. If you 
don’t like the gentleman, refuse him, but 
love is no reason for hate.” 

“Sometimes,” said Janet. “Good-bye, 
aunt; thank you, I must go,” and she ran off 
to the stable, whence her aunt soon after saw 
her riding quickly down the avenue. 

The old German doctor came out of the 
library and looked after her, and, in her per- 
plexity, Mrs. Selwyn turned to him, saying : 


43 


ashurst; or the days that are not. 


“You have heard the talk about Mr. Max- 
well and Janet, Herr? She tells me that she 
does not mean to marry him. She says she 
hates him.” 

“Ach ! a girl’s hate !” said the old man, 
laughing. “Was that Mr. Maxwell who rode 
away as if the Devil were behind him ? There 
has been one great quarrel, then ? ? ’ 

“Mr. Maxwell! Has he been here? I did 
not know ?” 

“I saw, an hour ago, a young man, tall and 
strong, go away with a red, angry faee. He 
rode like the wild huntsman. Peter said he 
came to see the fraiilein, and that they quar- 
relled had. He swore as he got to horse.” 

“That must have been Mr. Maxweli. Janet 
did not tell me he had been here. I hope 
that Mr. Selwyn will not be very angry.” 

Once past the gate and alone in the soli- 
tude of the pines, Janet cheeked her horse, 
and rode more slowly. 

Anxious as she was to see and consult with 
her grandmother, she had first to consider 
how she could, without revealing Hugh’s sad 
secret, convince Mrs. Selwyn, and to persuade 
her to join in convincing her husband that it 
was impossible for her to marry Maxwell. 

Janet trembled, as she thought of her 
grandfather’s disa.ppointment and rage at the 
failure of his cherished scheme. She felt, 
with bitter self-reproach, that had she at 
once decidedly refused Maxwell, her grand- 
father would, after some grumbling, have 
acquiesced; but now, having so long allowed 
him to hope for the accomplishment of his 
wishes, she absolutely dreaded the effect of 
her answer upon him. 

Weakness and violence are a terrible com- 
bination, and the poor girl thought with hor- 
ror that a second stroke might be the result 
of any angry excitement. 

One thing she had determined. She would 
not, if possible, see Maxwell again. She in- 
tended to write to him that night, and she 
hoped that he would leave the house in the 
morning. She feared that should he meet 
with Hugh some harm might come of it. 
Hugh had sworn to hold his hand, but Max- 
well had made no such oath, and should he 
couple her refusal with Hugh’s presence! 
What passions might not be concealed under 
that passionless exterior ! 

All this was to be accomplished to-day, this 
short winter day already half over — but the 
poor child thought with dismay that this was 
but the half of her work. 

She must keep her lover’s honor pure. The 
reyelation of the morning, the mutual decla- 
ration of love, must be put away as though it 
had never been made. 

She thought of Agnes with her apparent 
calm, and divined, rather than understood, 
that a strong, sensuous nature w r as thereby 
coucealed. She acknowledged to herself that 
whatever Mrs. Berkley’s motive might have 
been, love was Agnes’s, a love too animinal, 
too sensual, for the delicate minded girl to 
comprehend, but the strength of which she 


respected even while she shrank from contem- 
pla'ing it. 

No ! Hugh’s honor and Agnes’ happiness 
should be safe, and she — she trusted that 
after a time a sort of peace might come to 
her also. 

The sore feeling of having been deceived, 
of having loved and been neglected, had 
passed. Hugh and she had both been duped 
— duped by a woman whose malevolence she 
could trace for years past, but no wound 
from another hand could hurt as the fancied 
one from his had done, and, miserable as she 
was, she felt that she could endure. 

If only the next week were over ! Could 
she, and could Hugh, act as it would behoove 
them to act through these coming days ? She 
trembled at the thought, and determined to 
write to him also, assuring him that she 
could never meet him again but as a stranger, 
and praying him to find some pretext for 
going away, and thus spare them both the 
ordeal of the Christmas gayeties. 

Thus resolved, her mind reverted to the 
business of the hour, the necessary communi- 
tion to her grand-parents, and she was still 
riding slowly along lost in thought, when the 
fidgeting of her horse recalled her attention. 

She then became aware that she could not 
be far from where the “drive” was going on, 
for the sound of horns, the baying of dogs, 
and the shouts of the drivers chasing the 
deer before them, were to be heard at no 
great distance to the left. 

Nothing was further from Janet’s wishes 
than to find herself surrounded by the joy- 
ous hurly-burly of the hunt, and perceiving 
that she was nearly half way home, and that 
a byroad branched off to the right, which 
would take her there by a detour of not more 
than three miles, she turned her unwilling 
horse in that direction, and, putting him to 
the gallop, prepared to go as fast as possible 
to Ashurst. 

She had not ridden more than a mile, how- 
ever, before she discovered that she had not 
altogether avoided the hunt, as a horse tied to 
a tree neighed as hers approached. 

She saw no rider, and supposing that his 
“stand” must be some little way off, rode on 
hoping to be able to pass unnoticed. The 
road in which she was, an abandoned cart 
track overgrown with grass and young scrub, 
was by no means smooth riding, and she was 
watching with the instinct of a country rider 
to see that her horse did not put his foot into 
a hole, when he suddenly started with such 
violence as almost to throw her from her 
saddle, and then backed and snorted with 
fear. Involuntarily she thought of her first 
meeting with Hugh, and was about to turn 
aside, to avoid the unseen object which had 
caused the start, when she caught sight 
of it. 

It was a man lying flat on his face, with his 
arms outspread and his felt hat placed curi- 
ously upon his head, so as to cover it entirely 
from view. She thought that it was a negro 
asleep; and called to him : 


44 


ashurst; or the days that are not. 


“You must not lie there in the road. I had 
almost ridden over you.” But he did not stir, 
and the perfect stillness of the figure struck 
her, although as it lay in the long grass she 
could not distincily see it. 

Jumping from her horse she approached, 
fearing she knew not what, but as she bent 
down an awful sense of recognition seized 
her, and it was with a half suppressed cry 
that she removed the hat revealing a ghastly 
sight. 

Maxwell lay before her apparently dead, 
the back of his head, crushed as by a blow, 
one mass of clotted blood. Forgetting all, 
Janet threw herself on her knees beside him. 
raised his head, cried aloud for help ! help ! 
But no help came. Putting forth all her 
strength she attempted to turn him oyer — to 
see if he were indeed dead, if life were quite 
extinct; but just as by a great effort she had 
succeeded in doing so, and placed her hand 
on the heart to try if any movement remained, 
a cry far wilder and more bitter than any that 
had yet escaped her broke from her lips, and 
sh« fell senseless across the corpse. 

Under the dead man lay, its heavy butt 
covered with blood, the whip, which she had 
that morning seen put into Hugh Carlton’s 
hand. How long she lay there Janet never 
knew, nor how long it was after conscious- 
ness had returned that reason could not be 
controlled. The sight of the whip had in- 
stantly suggested murder, an idea which had 
not previously occurred to her, she having 
thought only of a fall from his horse, and 
when, regaining her senses, she sat up, and 
began to think and observe, she saw bv the 
broken and trodden grass that there had been 
a struggle. The ground did not keep the 
print of feet, but there were tracks of horse 
hoofs in a muddy spot, and a piece of coarse 
cloth hung on a brier hard by. 

With eyes sharpened and quickened by 
love and horror, Janet noted all these things: 
hen for some moments she sank down with her 
face buried in her hands. At last she sprang 
to her feet, took up the whip with a shudder, 
and plucked the cloth from its brier. Wrap- 
ping both it and the bloody whip handle in 
her veil, and not daring to cast another look 
at the still face, she remounted her horse, left 
the road and struck directly into the wood. 

After riding for half an hour, she gained 
the very pool in which she had met the snake, 
approaching it, however, from- an opposite 
direction. Wrapping the veil yet more tightly 
around the whip, she rose in her stirrup and 
flung it deep into the water below. Down, 
down it sank into the thick leaves and water 
plants, far out of sight. 

“Lie there,” she muttered, “no one will 
dive in Dead Man’s Pool for you ! He saved 
me here once, I will save him now. That,” 
with a look at the water, “will tell no tales, 
and I can be silent. Oh! God, grant me 
strength !” 

Then she rode straight home, dismounted 
at the stable, went to her room, washed the 
blood from her habit, even took care to 


throw away the reddened water, and went 
down to her grand-pareuts with burning 
cheeks and eyes, ’tis true, but with a manner 
as resolutely quiet as ever was worn by 
martyr. 

In the meanwhile, Janet’s homeward ride 
had not been as unobserved as she supposed. 
Young Tom Vincent and James Cardwell 
had been posted together at a stand not far 
from the high-road, and had seen her when, 
at the sound of the horn, she turned aside into 
the cart-track. 

“Mr. Maxwell’s stand is down that way,” 
said Cardwell; “he is a lucky fellow to have 
his sweetheart go to visit him.” 

“Miss Janet knows nothing about it,” re- 
plied Vincent, angrily. “She isn’t that sort 
of a girl at all. She went that road to get 
away from the hunt, you may be sure.” 

“She will come on Maxwell all the same 
though.” 

“Very likely.” 

“What do you think of Maxwell ?” 
“Deuced clever fellow — too clever for most 
— I’ll tell you who thinks so — my cousin, 
Hugh Carlton.” 

“Why ! What does he say of him ?” 

“Oh, nothing, but I can tell, by the way he 
looks when Maxwell is mentioned, that he 
hates him.” 

“Carlton isn’t sweet on Miss Janet himself, 
is he ?” 

“Oh, no; engaged to her sister, Miss Agnes, 
but he hates him for all that.” 

“Where is Carlton’s stand ?” 

“Nowhere; he had a headache and went 
home.” 

“That’s queer, I saw him ride by an hour 
ago.” 

“He must have come out again. Which 
way did he go ?” 

“Down that same road.” 

“Well, that is the shortest way home.” 
“Yes, but does Carlton know the woods like 
that V” 

“He may. He was here once before when I 
was away at school. Here come the dogs. 
Now look out !” 

It was a long “drive” that day. The deer 
(five in number) running to the left of the 
high-road, passed out of shot to Vincent and 
Cardwell, and, then turning southward, led 
dogs and men along round by Oakwood 
Swamp, and Blackwater reserve. Two had 
fallen, but three fine bucks held gallantly on, 
and it was not until 4 o’clock that they took 
to the pines and made a run for Vincent’s 
Creek. 

It was on this track that Maxwell had been 
stationed, and it was in following up the 
dogs that the drivers came, much as "Janet 
had done, upon his dead body, lying now 
upon the back and staring with set glazed 
eyes up at the sky. 

Murder was in those quiet days such a very 
rare occurrence in the country, that the 
drivers and the gentlemen, whom they hastily 
summoned, thought at first only of accident. 
He had. fallen from his horse, they said; until 


ashurst; or the days that are not. 45 


they noticed the horse tied many yards away. 
They then grew pale and began to search. 

But they themselves had so broken the 
grass and leaves, and trampled the ground, 
that the indications of violence which Janet 
had seen were lost, only in one of the dead 
man’s clenched fists a small piece of white 
cloth was found. 

After a few minutes of hasty counsel 
messengers were dispatched. For the doctor 
— not that he could be of any use, but be- 
cause in trouble one always sends for the 
doctor, for the sheriff and for the coroner, 
but as these functionaries lived twenty miles 
off, it was decided to carry the body to 
Ashurst, and one of the young Selwyns was 
aent to warn his aunt of the terrible event, 
sud to bring a wagon. 

The younger men were told by Mr. Vincent, 
who was a magistrate, to search the woods 
for five miles around, and to stop and question 
any suspicious characters who might be 
found. 

“Poor fellow !” said the good-natured 
gentleman, “he certainly hadn’t an enemy in 
the country. He has been murdered for the 
sake of plunder.” 

“No,” said Tom Vincent, who was kneeling 
by the body,” for here is his watch in his 
pocket.” 

“Any money ?” 

“Nol but he might not have brought any 
out. Could he have had a quarrel ?” 

“Why, Tom ?” cried Cardwell, who was a 
blundering creature, “you know what you 
told me yourself just now : that your cousin 
hated him !” 

“What, what is that?” cried several voices. 

“What devil’s foolery is that?” repeated 
Mr. Vincent. “Cardwell, what do you mean !” 

Cardwell was very much frightened at the 
eyes eagerly turned upon him, but he an- 
swered stammeringly: 

“Only Tom Vincent told me that his cousin, 
Mr. Carlton, hated Mr. Maxwell.” 

“Tom,” said his father gravely, “what did 
you sav? And had you any authority for your 
words?” 

“Cardwell is a thundering ass!” cried Tom 
Vincent, in a rage. “I only said that I thought 
Hugh hated Mr. Maxwell from the way he 
looked, but that he had never said a word 
about him.” 

“Yes,” answered Cardwell, very angry in 
his turn, “you need not try to get out of it; 
and you know, too, that I told you that Hugh 
Carlton came down this same road just about 
one o’clock.” 

“You must be mistaken,” said Mr. Vincent. 
“Carlton went home with a headache soon 
after ten.” 

“I tell you,” returned Cardwell, doggedly, 
“that I saw him at one come down that road 
and turn off in this track; and when I told 
Tom so, he said it was the short cut to your 
place. Yes, and then about two, we both saw 
Miss Janet Berkley come down here.” 

The elder gentlemen looked at each other, 
and then Mr. Ralph Selwyn said: 


“We lose time in talk. Ride about, young 
men, and search the woods and negro quarters 
for five miles around. Mr. Vincent gives you 
full powers. The murderer cannot have gone 
very far.” 


CHAPTER NIX. 

Tin n i pake the gentle Alcestis : “Hear, oh 
g >ldeD -haired Apollo, and thou, Zeus, the all 
powerful ! Suffer me, now, oh ye gods, to depart 
into i he sunless land, and let my lord, Admetus, 
remain in pleasant Thessaly.” 

[ Greek Legends, 

There was an uncomfortable silence as the 
younger men mounted and rode away. Then 
Mr. Grey, the eldest of the remaining gentle- 
men, said: 

“Now that those lads are gone, I must say 
that this looks very like a quarrel.” 

“I hope, Vincent, that what that young 
dunderhead, my nephew, said just now has 
not annoyed you; of course, no one thinks of 
Mr. Carlton,” said Mr. Cardwell. 

“Of course not, of course not; boy’s idle 
talk,” returned Mr. Vincent, looking never- 
theless somewhat worried. “But if Hugh 
and Miss Berkley did both pass this way 
this morning, I wonder that we did not 
hear of this— this event before,” looking to- 
wards the still form from which they had 
withdrawn a little way. 

“I left my niece, Janet, at my house to- 
day,” said Mr. Selwyn. “I do not see how 
she can have been here; this is not the road to 
Ashurst, and she was to remain with us until 
one of the boys should return from the hunt 
to ride home with her. 1 think that your 
nephew must have been mistaken, Card- 
well.” 

“Perhaps so, but Selwyn, let me ask, you 
know, I suppose, that it is generally believed 
that your niece is— was, I should say — en- 
gaged to this poor fellow. Indeed your 
brother gave me to understand as much last 
week. Have you thought of breaking the 
news to her — the shock !” 

“I will send a note to my wife at once. I 
should have done so before,” said Mr. Sel- 
wyn, “although as things have turned out, I 
am glad to remember that she told me last 
night that she did not think the poor thing 
much wished the marriage — thought it chiefly 
my brother’s doing. Still this will be an awful 
story to tell her.” 

And taking a leaf from his pocketbook he 
wrote a note to Mrs. Selwyn, telling her of 
the murder, begging her to break it to Janet 
if she were still at Buckstone, and if not to 
come at once to Ashurst. Having written he 
looked at the group of negroes, none of whom 
were his, and said: 

“Vincent, can you let your boy Caesar take 
this note.” 

“Certainly — here Caesar.” 

Caesar came up and received his instruc- 
tions, but hesitated for a moment, and then 
said to his master: 


46 


ashurst; or the days that are not. 


“Mas’ Hugh Carltou boy Cyrus, him tun 
fay sick dis mornin’ when him see Mas’ 
Maxwell. He say he know him long time 
ago an’ him berry bad man.” 

“Did he say anything more?” asked Mr. 
Selwyn eagerly. 

“No, sir, he say him know him, but him 
maussa no know him — not know him fo’ bad 
like him be, he say him gwine tell Mas’ 
Carlton.” 

“Where is Cyrus now ?” 

“He lef ’ de meet wid Mas’ Carlton— gone 
home to we house.” 

“Go on at once then to Buckstone.” And 
a most uueasy silence fell upon the party who 
were awaiting the arrival of the wagon on 
which the body was to be removed. 

Never, in all its decent, decorous existence, 
had there been such a night known at 
Ashurst. Within and without the house were 
gathered almost all the neighbors, gentle 
and simple, white and black. 

The rapidity with which news, and es- 
pecially ill news spreads, is marvellous in all 
countries, but most marvellous in the South, 
where the negroes are never too busy to leave 
auy work, and speeding swift and silent as 
shadows through the forest, tell the tale of 
horror from plantation to plantation. 

The Christmas holidays having begun they 
were now quite at liberty, and by nightfall 
the tale of Maxwell’s murder, with innumera- 
ble variations, was known throughout the 
country, and busy tongues were at work with 
suggestions and suspicions innumerable. 

Nothing, however, could really be done un- 
til the arrival of the coroner. He did not 
come until the next day at noon, and then, 
empanelling a jury from the gentlemen pres- 
ent, they proceeded at once to the necessary 
ghastly examinations around the bed on 
which lay stretched Maxwell’s tall and stately 
form These — and they were soon over — 

completed, they went to another room, and | 
began the work of eliciting all possible in- 
formation. 

The facts proved as yet were few, but now 
the question, “Who last saw the deceased 
alive ?” had been asked, and the answers 
were startling, for it was shown that, after 
Maxwell had been posted at his stand, before 
eleven o’clock, no one had seen him until the 
discovery of his corpse at half after four. 

“Was it likely that 710 one should go down 
a public road in all those hours ?” asked the 
coroner. 

James Cardwell, putting himself forward, 
testified that the road was not a public road, 
properly speaking, but rather a by-path, and 
that he had himself seen Mr. Hugh Carlton 
go down it at one o’clock, and Miss Janet 
Berkley about two.” 

“And the man was found dead, dead and 
cold, you tell me, at half after 4 ? Call Mr. 
Hugh Carlton,” said Mr. Brown, the coroner. 

There was some little delay before Hugh 
entered, and while awaiting him an overseer 
stepped up and said that he had been super- 
intending the felling of some lumber a mile or 


two farther down the same track, and had 
seen Mr. Carlton come galloping down as if 
the Old Boy was after him. 

“At what o’clock ?” 

“Between one and two.” 

Hugh, who had been walking up and down 
the garden, trying to compose his troubled 
thoughts, then entered. He had no notion 
that any one suspected him, and did not know 
why he had been sent for. The coroner ques- 
tioned him closely. 

“Had he gone down that cart-track ?” 

“Yes, he had.” 

“Had he done so for the purpose of meet- 
ing Mr. Maxwell ?” 

“By no means. He took it as the shortest 
road to Mr. Vincent’s plantation.” 

“Had he seen Mr. Maxwell ?” 

“He had.” 

“Was he alive when you saw him first?” 

Hugh started and exclaimed : 

“Certainly he was alive. What do you 
mean ?” 

“Did you have any conversation with 
him ?” 

“Yes, we talked for some minutes.” 

“Of what nature was the conservation ?” 

“1 do not see why you ask that, nor why I 
should answer,” said Hugh, flushing. 

“Because, Mr. Carlton,” said Mr. Brown 
gravely, “it is rumored that there was ill feel- 
ing between Mr. Maxwell and yourself; that 
you had shown it by looks, and your servant 
by words. You, by your own account, were 
with him later than any other man that we 
can hear of, and, I am forced to tell you, that 
there are grave suspicions entertained of you.” 

“I swear,” answered Hugh readily, “that I 
know nothing of this deed. There was ill 
feeling between us. I did not expect to meet 
him in the wood, and, coming suddenly upon 
him, lost my temper, and high w'ords passed; 
we quarrelled violently, in fact. But i gave 
him no blow, and rode away as fast as possi- 
ble that I might give none.” 

There was truth in his look and tone, and 
the coroner said with less severity : 

“Then, Mr. Carlton, you assert positively 
that you left Mr. Maxwell alive and unharmed 
at about half-past one o’clock ?” 

“I assert it positively.” 

“Then I am compelled to request the pres- 
ence of Miss Janet Berkley.” 

“Of Miss Janet Berkley ! but why ?” ex- 
claimed Hugh, who, not having been in the 
room, had heard nothing of what had passed 
previously. 

They explained the case to him, and it was 
easy to see how the intelligence agitated him. 
Mr. Ralph Selwyn said that he would go for 
his niece, and left the room. 

Janet was in no state to stand any further 
excitement. The terrible effort of the night 
and day had already almost exhausted her 
strength. 

Tom Selwyn had burst in so incautiously 
with his news the evening before, that Mr. 
Selwyn had heard it all, and an access of his 
disease had immediately supervened. 


asiiurst; or the days that are not. 


47 


In the bustle and excitement Janet had es- 
caped notice, but she knew that had it not 
been for this painful pre-occupation her grand- 
mother could not have failed to observe that 
in her distress there was no surprise. The 
relief, however, from feigning ignorance was 
so great, and the pent up feelings of so many 
hours burst forth with such vehemence, that 
Mrs. Selwyn was rather astonished at the 
greatness of her grief; and, not suspecting 
that it was the living, and not the dead, lover 
for whom she mourned, let her creep away to 
her room in quiet. There Mr. Selwyn now 
found her; knocking at the door, he said : 

“You must come down stairs, child; they 
want to question you.” 

Janet’s heart stood still. 

“Don’t be frightened, but they say that you 
passed near this poor fellow’s stand yesterday, 
and I do hope that you will be able to prove 
that he was alive when you did so, for if not 
it will go hard with Carlton. He is the last 
person that was with him and confesses to a 
quarrel, but of course denies the murder.” 

Nowit had never occurred to Janet that, 
the terrible witness of the whip once removed, 
any suspicion could fall upon Hugh. She 
had looked forward to a life-long secrecy and 
silence, but had not anticipated any such or 
deal as this. Now it flashed through' her 
brain that, in order to save him, she must in- 
culpate, or at least lead others to inculpate, 
herself — that the doubt, removed from him, 
would fall on her. But, how to do this ? She 
had no time for thought, for Mr. Selwyn, ex- 
claiming : 

“Come, my dear, waiting won’t make it 
better; best get over it at once,” much as one 
speaks to a child at the dentist’s door, seized 
her arm, and hurried her down stairs and into 
the jury-room. 

Never before had Janet looked as she did 
then. Her hair, bound closely round her 
head, her heavy, clinging black dress, the 
crimson spot on each cheek, the large, dilated 
eyes, the small hands nervously grasping 
each other, struck every eye. 

All rose to greet her. They put her in a 
chair, and, while the kindly country gentle- 
men, most of whom had known her from her 
childhood, looked on with pity, the coroner, 
courteously expressing his regret at being 
obliged to intrude upon her distress, asked if 
she had seen Mr. Maxwell the day before — 
how, and when ? 

One look of agony Janet darted upon Hugh. 
And he — he sat with death in his heart. Then 
she turned to the coroner and opened her lips 
as if to speak; but no sound came, and he re- 
peated : 

“Did you see Mr. Maxwell yesterday, Miss 
Berkley ?” 

“I did,” she answered, and her voice rose 
high and shrill. 

“Where and when ?” 

“At the Vincent Creek stand— I don’t know 
at what o’clock.” 

Here Mrs. Ralph Selwyn, who had followed 
Janet into the room, interposed, saying that it 


was past one before her niece had left Buck- 
stone the day before, and that she could not 
have reached the “stand” until after two. 

Janet’s misery was so painfully evident that 
the coroner, hurrying his last question, un- 
warily put it in an affirmative form: 

“And he was alive when you left him, my 
dear young lady, I think you said.” 

“He was alive,” she cried, “when I met 
him, and — when I left him” — and with a 
piercing shriek she fell forward insensible. 

Every man sprang up. Mrs. Selwyn caught 
her head, and she was carried off to her own 
room. Hugh was paralyzed with horror. 

The coroner looked at his notes impatiently. 

“We make no progress,” he said. “Miss 
Berkley’s evidence, so agitated, so cut short, 
amounts to nothing. We do not even know 
how her last sentence was to have ended.” 
This was said very slowly aud with emphasis. 

The gentlemen looked at each other, and 
there was a dead hush, broken by a movement 
in the crowd without. 

A negro man entered with a resolute air, 
and, walking directly up to the table, said: 

“I am Mr, Maxwell’s servant, sir, an’ I must 
tell what I seen myself. When Miss Janet 
come home las’ evening she lighted off to de 
stable. Her dress was all wet in front an’ 
her sleeve cuff wer red wid blood. 1 seen it 
myself.’ 

“You lying knave,” broke out Mr. Selwyn. 

“Mr. Selwyn, you must not intimidate the 
witness. Speak out, boy.” 

“I seen it myself, sir, an’ Joe too.” 

Joe, summoned, utterly denied the whole 
story, but rather avoided meeting the other’s 
eyes. 

Negro testimony not being of much value, 
the jury hesitated, and the coroner said with 
evident reluctance: 

“I think, Mr. Selwyn, that we must ask to 
see the riding dress which the fellow SDeaks 
of.” 

“Oh, no! Shame! shame!” several voices 
cried. But Mr. Selwyn said that he would 
bring it, and left the room. When he returned 
he was very pale. The long habit hung over 
his arm. The front of the skirt and a spot on 
the body were still wet, wet with water, in- 
deed, but it was too evident that they had 
been washed. The white cuffs were not to be 
found, and Mr. Selwyn said that his niece 
was still insensible, and that her maid knew 
nothing. 

“Then it appears,” said the Coroner, with 
some impatience, “that the sole witness is this 
bit of cloth. Our facts amount to this. This 
gentleman is dead; his skull fractured, appa- 
rently by some blunt instrument; his watch 
left on him; his purse removed, and, by-the- 
by, where is his gun ?” They looked at each 
other. No one had thought of the gun. It 
certainly could not have been any where near 
him. Mr. Brown resumed: “His gun gone, 
probably stolen with the purse, and the only 
two persons who passed that way depose that 
he was alive at one and two o’clock; while 
you, gentlemen, all swear that he was cold and 


48 


asiiurst; or tite days that are not. 


stiff at four. Miss Berkley’s habit has been 
wet, and a negro says it was bloody. Gentle- 
men, we can, of course, give no verdict as 
yet.” 

“The sheriff and bis parties are still scour- 
ing the country,” said Mr. Vincent; “until 
they return we can know nothing. Let us 
adjourn to reassemble when you choose.” 

They adjourned accordingly, but as it was 
late and raining heavily all but the very 
nearest neighbors remained at Mr. Ralph 
Selwyn’s invitation to spend yet another night 
at Ashurst, the coroner remarking significant- 
ly that he should on reassembling require the 
presence of both Mr. Carlton and Miss Berk- 
ley. 


CHAPTER NX. 

“ ’Las, the noble heart, they thought, 

She with grief U sooth distraught.” 

{Mrs. Browning. 

Janet had been laid on her bed and restora- 
tives applied by her aunt and the doctor, but 
life returned very slowly. The swoon lasted so 

long that they were becoming seriously 
alarmed when at last she opened her eyes with 
a long, quivering cry as of physical pain. To 
their question she made no answer, looking 
at them with wild dilated eyes that expressed 
nothing but fear. 

“Her brain is turned,” the Doctor said. | 
“Poor thing the grief and the shock have 
been too much for her. Was she very much 
attached to him?” for the Doctor had come j 
straight from old Mr. Selwyn’s room to Janet’s | 
and had heard nothing of the evidence given. 

“No,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “she told me only 
yesterday that it was a mistake to suppose 
her engaged to him; but they were friends — 
and the shock,” and the good lady stopped 
suddenly, for as she spoke she remembered 
the fierce “I hate him” that had broken from 
Janet and she colored so deeply that the 
Doctor noticed it. 

“Oh, well, well,” he answered soothingly, 
“much best so of course. She is quite dis- 
traught now however. I don’t think that she 
hears a word we say. Put her feet into hot 
water, and cold applications to her head and 
keep her perfectly quiet, don’t let any one 
disturb her. I will return presently, but 
must go now to Mr. Selwyn.” 

After some time Mr. Ralph Selwyn came 
up, and trusting to his wife’s assurance that 
Janet was quite unconscious, told in loud 
whispers all that had passed down stairs, con- 
cluding with: 

“I do not of course believe that she can 
know anything at all about it, but it made a 
great impression — an awful impression, I can 
tell you. The fellow told his story so boldly 
and the dress being so wet ! What can she 
have been after ?” 

“Of course she has nothing to do with it,” 
said Mrs. Selwyn angrily. “There are a 
thousand ways in which she might get her 
dress muddy and so wash it. She was always | 


going after plants and flowers in all sorts of 
places — but, Ralph, no one seems to know that 
Mr. Maxwell was at our house yesterday. I 
did not mention it, not knowing if it was of 
any consequence.” 

“At our house — impossible — he was on his 
stand all day.” 

“I assure you that he was at Buckstone 
early in the day, and he and Janet quarrelled, 
and then she told me she hated him.” 

“She did !” with a look of horror. “Did you 
see him ?” 

“No, I was out. She received him alone; 
but Herr Muller saw him go away, and said 
he rode furiously, and looked red and angry.” 

“Red” — Maxwell never looked red in his 
life — dark as a Spaniard.” 

“That may have been the Herr’s way of 
talking. Anyhow, Ralph, I do feel unhappy; 
there is some mystery, and look at her ! 1 
wonder if she really is as insensible as the 
doctor says. See how her eyes shiue and look 
this way. 1 almost fancy that she hears, al- 
though she does not speak.” 

Mr. Selwyn approached the bed and looked 
closely at her. 

“She is going mad,” he whispered to his 
wife. “A brain fever, you may depend on it, 
and I have no confidence in Dr. Hewitt, a sol- 
emn owl ! I wish the old Herr was here.” 

“Oh, yes. Do send — send at once for him. 
What o’clock is it ? dark and raining ? Never 
mind— send a carriage, and let Tom go in it 
and bring him up the first thing in the morn- 
ing. He will do anything for Janet.” 

All this time Janet lay still, almost motion- 
less. She caught enough of the whispers 
about her to know that suspicion had been 
turned from Hugh to herself, and, persuaded 
of his guilt as she was, (for she knew nothing 
of his answers to the coroner) all her thoughts 
were now bent on maintaining the mistake. 
She knew herself to be so unapt at deception, 
so unskilled in invention, that she was afraid 
to do or say anything for fear of detection, 
and could think of nothing except to remain 
obstiuately silent, and let her agitation and 
her wet habit tell their own tale. She tried 
to remember what she had heard of circum- 
stantial evidence, and of law, but her head 
ached too violently for her vague knowledge 
to arrange itself, and deciding on silence for 
the present, she postponed consideration of 
future action, and lay still with clasped hands 
and wide staring eyes, all through the long, 
long December night. 

Under Mr. Ralph Selwyn’s direction the 
housekeeper had hastily made arrangements 
to accommodate as many persons as possible. 
Every corner of the large house was filled, 
and several of the younger men were quar- 
tered in one large room, which, intended for 
a ball-room, occupied an entire wing of the 
hoqse. Here beds were laid upon the floor, 
in which half a dozen youngsters were ex- 
pected to sleep, and here (abandoning by 
common consent the ordinary sitting rooms, 
•made gloomy by that terrible Presence, and 
by the vicinity of the apartment where Mr. 


49 


asiixjkst; oe the days that are not. 


Selwyn, closely attended by wife, brother and 
doctor, lay in a most precarious state,) most 
of the company gathered round the fire. 

Hugh had preferred the solitude of his own 
room, and Mr. Vincent had also retired, so 
that the talk flowed freely. 

The wide fireplace was heaped with good 
oak logs, which glowed and crackled, and 
from the lightwood knots tongues of flame lit 
up the quaint blue and white tiles, where 
Abraham sacrificed Isaac, girls in short petti- 
coats skated over ice, David struck off Go- 
liath’s head, and fat Dutch vrows peeled car- 
rots and filled ale jugs, in close and curious 
contiguity. 

The cheerful blaze, and the punch which 
the old butler offered, somewhat cheered the 
awed and depressed spirits of the men, and 
various theories and opinions were advanced, 
all shrinking, with natural chivalry, from any 
expression which might implicate Janet, al- 
though every man there was conscious of a 
secret fear “that she might know something 
about it.” They had talked for some time 
before the remark which produced the most 
effect was made, and made by no wiser man 
than James Cardwell, who, since his alterca 
tion with Tom Vincent, seemed to have taken 
a positive aversion to Hugh. 

“After all, Mr. Brown,” he said, turning to 
the coroner, “I think that what Miss Janet 
said, and her wet dress, may just be this : 
•She said, ‘He was alive when I met him, and 
when I left him — ’ and then she shrieked and 
fainted. Now, suppose she found him 
wounded, and so got bloody, and he died af- 
terwards?”— 

“James,” said his uncle, severely, “do not 
present such absurd ideas. If Miss Berkley 
had known anything of the matter, she 
would instantly have got assistance, of 
course.” 

“Yes,” persisted the nephew, with the ob- 
stinacy of a stupid man, who, having got hold 
of an idea, cannot help harping on it, “that is 
if she had no reason for hushing it up; but 
she was certainly very much upset, and Carl- 
ton was to have married Miss Janet’s sister.” 

The men looked at each other, and the cor- 
oner, who was comparatively a stranger in the 
country, said: “Did not some one say that 
Miss Berkley was to have married Mr. Max- 
well ?” 

“That was not so,” answered Dr. Hewitt, 
who had entered the room a few minutes be- 
fore, “Mrs. Ralph Selwyn told me so this af- 
ternoon, but that blow must have been given 
with great force, and he could not have lived 
two minutes after receiving it; there was no 
lying wounded in the case.” 

“You will observe,” said Mr. Brown, “that 
we really know nothing, as I said before; not 
even that this is a murder. It is very evident 
that you gentlemen are happily unaccustomed 
to cases of this terrible sort, for you never 
thought of looking for the weapon which 
dealt the blow, nor for his gun, possibly one 
and the same thing. You conclude that he . 
was murdered, because you say he was too far 


from where the horse was tied to have fallen 
from it, but he may have been moved, or the 
horse may have been tied after his death by 
some party or parties unknown, who con- 
cealed the fact in order to make off with the 
gun and purse. Without further proof, either 
positive or circumstantial, I shall doubt 
whether to believe it murder.” 

“What do you propose doing next?” asked 
Mr. Grey. 

“To make, to-morrow morning, a thorough 
examination of the locality. I got here too 
late to do it to-day; and also” to summon that 
servant of Mr. Carlton’s, who is said to have 
expressed a hatred of Mr. Maxwell, and of 
whom I never heard until five minutes ago. 
Decidedly, gentlemen, you are not used to 
murders.” 

“Long may our ignorance continue,” said 
Mr. Grey, as the others looked somewhat 
sheepishly at each other. “But pray, Mr. 
Brown, let me ask, was not your last ques- 
tion to Miss Berkley rather what you lawyers 
would call a leading one ? eh ! 

“Ah ! you have me there — the words were 
not out of my mouth before I felt it. Highly 
unprofessional ! but you see, the young lady 
was too much for me ! I never had to ex- 
amine such a witness before. To-morrow, 
however, I will be sternly incorruptible,” 
answered Mr. Brown, laughing and stirring 
his punch. “Please God, I may not be obliged 
to torment her any more.” 

“I incline to believe,” said the doctor, 
“that it was a blow. Falling on the flat ground, 
unless, indeed, some stone or stump may 
have been there, would not break in the head 
in such a very remarkable way. There is an 
absolute cavity, as if made with a ball, be- 
tween the ears. My notion is that it is a mur- 
der for robbery, and that his own gun was 
used for the purpose.” 

“Possibly,” answered Mr. Brown, “I never 
heard anything of Mr. Maxwell, and never 
saw him until just now — but, looking at him, 
I should say that when that style of man is 
murdered there is generally a woman in the 
quarrel.” 

“Oh !” A sort of shudder ran through the 
room. 

“Mark me,” said the lawyer, “I don’t mean 
that he falls by a woman’s hand, but those 
extraordinarily handsome men get into scrapes 
—lead into scrapes, and then some one re- 
venges them.” 

There was silence for some moments, and 
then old Mr. Grey said gravely : 

“We should not suspect the dead. To- 
morrow we must search the ground carefully, 
for it is evident that we have done things 
slackly. You see we were so very unprepared 
for such a case.” 

“Murders generally are unexpected,” re- 
turned Mr. Brown drily. “But here comes 
Mr. Selwyn. I hope that your brother is 
better ?” 

“Very ill indeed,” answered Mr. Selwyn; 
“his mind wanders incessantly. Fortunately 
he does not speak of Maxwell or ask for his 


50 


ashurst; or the days that are not. 


granddaughter, but he remembers that Mrs. 
and Miss Berkley were to have arrived here 
to-day, (I suppose that the rain has delayed 
them,) and he fancies that we prevent his 
seeing them. Do, Hewitt, come and try to 
pacify him.” 

They left the room together, and the others 
went to their various sleeping places. 

Of all the miserable watchers of that most 
miserable night, there was none whose suf- 
ferings could be compared to Hugh Carlton’s. 
The horror that filled his mind was utterly 
indescribable. Not dreaming that Janet was 
trying to shelter him, the terrible thought had 
occurred to him, that meeting Maxwell in the 
wood, in the angry, enraged state of mind in 
which he — Hugh — had left him but one short 
hour before, she had instantly broken with 
with him, and that he had, in his mad rage, 
attempted to compel her to marry him. In 
self-defence what might she not have done ? 

This thought, wild and improbable as it may 
seem, took possession of his brain, and effec- 
tually banished sleep, for thus, and thus only, 
could he account for the flushed, burning face, 
the wild eyes and the look of despair which 
J anet had cast upon him as she entered the 
room. 

He would have given worlds for one 
moment’s speech of her, but besides that she 
was said to be still unconscious, he felt that a 
certain surveillance was kept upon him, and 
that at least one-half of the company regarded 
him with suspicion. Gladly would he have 
increased this suspicion if, in so doing, he could 
have turned it from Janet; but although he 
pondered the point long as he tossed upon his 
bed, he saw no way of doing so, his first state- 
ment having been so clear and unqualified. 
And so the night came down on the saddest 
and gloomiest Christmas Eve that had ever 
come to Ashurst. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

The dark shall he light. 

And the wrong made right. 

[Scott. 

Morning brought no change in the situa- 
tion. The coroner, and the gentlemen who 
had gone with him at daybreak to search the 
scene of the murder came back no wiser than 
they went. Only the messenger who had 
gone to Mr. Vincent’s to summon Hugh Carl- 
ton’s servant returned with the intelligence 
that he had not been seen since the morning 
of the hunt. This, which all agreed was a 

suspicious circumstance, was the only fresh 
news at breakfast. 

The waiting and suspense became very tire- 
some, and the jury persuading the coroner to 
let them disperse, to come together at his 
call, went off to their several homes, leaving 
at Ashurst only the Ralph Selwyns, Mr. 
Brown and Messrs. Vincent and Carlton, 
whom he had requested to remain. 


These were standing together in the hall, 
looking after the departing guests, when old 
Herr Muller, who had arrived that morning 
from Buckstone, came down stairs from 
Janet’s room, and asked to be shown the 
room where the dead man lay. It opened 
from the hall, and his exclamation on enter- 
ing startled them all : 

“Ach, Gott,” he cried, as he saw the beau- 
tiful pallid face, “why I know him, right well 
I know him ! And has he thus ended ? It is 
sore pity of him. He was a bright illumined 
mind — but bad — bad always to his wife.” 

“His wife !” exclaimed all. “He was not 
married, Herr — Maxwell was never married.” 

“Why call you him Maxwell ? Alford is his 
name. I knew him and his wife. I was there. 
I helped them when the child was born. It 
is twenty — nein — it is twenty-three years gone 
away. See there the cut she gave him. I 
sewed it up myself. Ach ! scissors of women 
give an ugly gash;” and baring the breast the 
old man showed a curious, irregular scar on 
the left side, a little above the* heart. The 
gentlemen looked at each other, and Mr. Sel- 
wyn said at last: 

“There may be something in it, for I think, 
but am not quite sure, that Alford was the 
name of Maxwell’s stepfather.” 

“Not sure, not sure,” repeated the old man 
testily, “right sure am I. It was in the New 
Hampshire State — a little town in those great 
mountains. I had rested there in my wander- 
ings, and the people were kind to the 
stranger; they were a simple, good folk. But 
there came this man— he was not of them, but 
came to his wife; she was a stranger, too. 
Ach ! but she was young and handsome, and 
so fond, so wild for him ! She lived in a little 
white house by the lake where I used to fish, 
and came often to talk to me, for she was 
much alone. My heart was sore for her then, 
for I saw he loved her no more, but she knew 
it not, and believed all he told her. At last 
her baby was born, and he came not; I and 
one old woman were her only stay.” 

“Then after long waiting, and letters, ah ! 
letters upon letters, he came; and then, poor 
thing, he cast her off— he told her to go back 
to her own people, for he would none of her. 
He was only a lad — ein bursclie , and yet so 
wicked !” 

“And what then ?” asked Mr. Selwyn; for 
the old man paused. 

“Then ! Ach there was der Teufel ; he had no 
heart at all, though he dead is I say it. He 
told her to go; he was going far, far away, he 
said; he could no more. She sprang at him 
with her big scissors and cut him, which you 
see. He bled, bled, bled, till he grew pale- 
pale as now. She ran for me, she cried and 
bewept herself as women use; I sewed up the 
cut; he soon was well and went away, and she 
stayed heart-grieved. I was pitiful, and went 
to her often. At last she got a letter from 
her mother, and she said, ‘This makes it 
easy;’ then she went, and I saw her never- 
more; but he, he is there,” pointing to the 
bed. 


ashukst; ok the days that are not. 


51 


“Do you kuow her name or where her peo- 
ple lived ?” 

“It was another State; not New Hamp- 
shire. I remember not the name. Her name, 
too, I know not, but he called her Nelly. 
Nelly for the wise Penelope.” 

“Penelope !” ejaculated Hugh and Mr. Sel- 
wyn at the same moment. 

“Yes, Penelope ! Why not? and, ach Him- 
mel, there she is ! behold her !” — pointing. 

Every man there wheeled round as he spoke, 
and saw through the open door Mrs. Berkley 
and Agnes, who having been delayed on the 
road, had just arrived, and had in the unset- 
tled state of the household entered unan- 
nounced. 

All stood silent but the old German, who, 
not at all compehending the situation, ran 
forward, and seizing Mrs. Berkley’s hands ex- 
claimed, “Ach meine hiebe dame ! is it thus 
and so that I meet thee ? I knew not thou 
wast told; here, here he is ! Didst thou forgive 
him, aud dost thou remember me, thy old 
friend ? And this, this schonige fraulein, is 
this my little child, the little voglein I used to 
call? "Ach, dear lady, here he is. The old 
man could Dot save him for thee this time, as 
once thou rememberest ! but thou forgavest; 
thou lovest still.” 

Running on thus, the old man had drawn 
the utterly bewildered Mrs. Berkley and 
Agnes up to the bed. Astonished and ex- 
pectant as the others were, they were far 
from being prepared for the wild cries, shriek 
upon shriek, which burst from the terrified 
woman. Agnes stood by, cold and pale as 
marble, without saying a word or attempting 
to help her stepmother, until the old man, 
appalled at the siorm he had raised, turned to 
her and said: 

“Speak to her , fraulein, tell her you remain 
to her if he is taken, his child is left, and 
Gott, bewahr! how like to him you are !” 

It was true ! The two white, still faces, the 
one on the bier, the other beside it, were cast 
in the same mould, line for line. Only the 
beard which Maxwell usually wore, and 
which was now removed, and the brilliant 
color which had now fled from Agnes’ cheeks, 
could have concealed the extraordinary like- 
ness; and Hugh felt with a shudder that he 
now knew how it was that Maxwell’s face 
had puzzled him when first they met. With 
an impulse of pity and loyalty, however, he 
advanced towards her, and was about to take 
her hand, but, looking up, she said coldly: 

“So! You know it all, it seems. Mother, 
stop screaming. Why should you cry for 
him ? He never did us anything but harm. 
How did this happen?” pointing to the dead 
man. “And who told you all about it?” 

The utter hardness, the absence of any sort 
of feeling in her expression and manner was 
so extraordinary that Hugh stood mute, but 
the good Doctor answered: 

“I — I, my fraulein; I, who knew thee when 
thou wert a babe— der armes kind. I knew 
thee at once! Ah, my dear lady!” as a fresh 
scream from Mrs. Berkley answered this 


speech. “Take her up, you who are strong, 
and take her to a bed, and to the women.” 

Messrs. Vincent and Brown lifted the dis- 
tracted woman, and carried her from the 
room, followed by Herr Muller; and then, 
Agnes, turning to Mr. Selwyn and Hugh Carl- 
ton who remained, said, in the same harsh, 
unnatural voice, “It is all true. I felt some- 
times that it must come out. But one month, 
only one month more, would have made me 
safe.” And she looked at Hugh. 

“Do you mean to say,” he said looking 
fixedly at her, “that you knew of this, this 
devil’s plot, and let it go on ? Do you know 
what would have been your sister’s fate, 
what she would have been if you had suc- 
ceeded in marrying her to him ?” 

“My sister’s !” she said with a laugh that 
made them shrink. “Yes, if you like to call 
her so. I knew all about him from the day of 
my father’s, (I suppose you w'ould sav,) I mean 
of Mr. Berkley’s death. I heard them talk- 
ing about the will and found it all out. I 
consented then, for I thought it was safest, 
though I hated him,” and her eyes flashed. 
“But when they changed and made the plan 
about Janet, I did not consent. No, Hugh, I 
did not consent, until, until I knew you; then 
when I saw, when I found, oh ! I would have 
given her to all the fiends in hell to keep you 
for myself; for I love you, oh I love you !” 
Her voice broke, and dissolved in a shower of 
tears, and for once she looked not handsome, 
but lovely. 

Hugh could not speak, but Mr. Selwyn said, 
sternly: 

“It is the most infamous plot that ever was 
hatched in a Christian country. Carlton, do 
not touch her.” 

“No one shall touch me,” she said, regain- 
ing her composure, and drawing her veil over 
her face, she walked slowly from the room, 
not casting another look at either father or 
lover. 

Hugh sank into a chair, and covered his 
face with his hands. 

“Did you ever hear anything so horrible?” 
said Mr. Selwyn. “A beautiful devil ! What 
an escape you have made, Mr. Carlton; how- 
ever this other business turns out, at least 
you are well quit of such a wife.” 

“And you think with the Italian, that the 
gallows is preferable,” answered Hugh, bit- 
terly. “I agree with you, Mr. Selwyn, better 
death than such a life ! But do you yet un- 
derstand the thing ? Had no one any suspi- 
cion before ?” 

“I do remember,” said Mr. Selwyn slowly, 
“that when we were all very much excited 
and provoked about poor James’ will, George 
Berkley’s wife (a very clever woman but ra- 
ther sharp-tongued) said some severe things 
about Mrs. James andMaxweil. I remember 
her saying that they must have known each 
other before, been old friends, or some such 
thing. But, I own, I thought it spite, because 
as they came from the same part of the coun- 
try, and one was a lady and the other not 


52 


ashurst; or the days that are not. 


quite— quite so— you understand, Mrs. George 
never could bear Mrs. James.” 

“And that was all?” 

“Yes. Maxwell behaved so very well about 
the will, and Janet — why, bless my soul ! 
probably, from what Agnes said just now, 
the whole will was a patched up affair be- 
tween Maxwell and Mrs. Berkley — or Mrs. 
Alford, as it seems she was. Shouldn’t you 
say so now ?” 

Mr. Brown, the coroner, who was a law- 
year, returned to the room while Mr. Selwyn 
was making his puzzled remarks, and now 
said : 

“Excuse me, Mr. Selwyn, for making a 
suggestion. As far as I can see, this is a very 
tangled affair, affecting character and prop- 
erty, and so far the only evidence is that old 
German gentleman’s reminiscences, and what 
the young lady has evidently been surprised 
into confessing. Now, let me suggest that, 
when Mrs. Berkley comes to, you let Mr. Vin- 
cent and myself, as we have heard all the 
story and are disinterested persons, get from 
her such a statement as will make things 
clear, and at the same time keep them quiet; 
for, I suppose, that you would like as much 
privacy as possible.” 

“You are very kind, Brown,” answered 
Mr. Selwyn. “The fact is we planters are chil- 
dren in matters of business. I shall be in- 
finitely relieved if you will take the whole 
thing into your own hands, make things clear 
aud legal, and save as much scandal as pos- 
sible.” 

“The old gentleman,” said Mr. Brown, 
who appeared very much puzzled by Dr. 
M idler, “has given Mrs. Berkley an opiate, 
which will, he says, soon make her sleep, and 
the young lady sits like a stone, with her veil 
down, speaking to no one. We can but wait. 
Let us take a turn to the stables, Mr. Selwyn, 
and look at the horses.” 

They walked off. Hugh, left to himself, 
sat on the piazza and thought over the varied 
scenes which had happened since he sat there 
last. He rembered Janet as she was then, in 
her simple, open-hearted girlhood; as he had 
next met her, in Virginia, in her gracious, 
high-bred beauty, and then, as she stood be- 
fore the jury ! He remembered the look of 
anguish, and the shrill voice, and shuddered 
at the possible cause. Was it possible, could 
that noblest, sweetest nature, that purest soul 
have such a stain ? Yes, Hugh thought with 
enthusiasm, it was possible; there were posi- 
tions, dangers, in which even she might have 
struck— struck, and been all the more noble; 
and the young man vowed a solemn vow in 
his heart that, once this weary work ended, 
he would devote his whole life to hers; that, 
no matter what her punishment might be — 
death, he knew, in such a case, was not to be 
feared— he would share it, and that, when 
free, she should be his loved and honored 
wife. And he prayed fervently, as he sat, 
that it might be granted unto him to bring 
back peace and happiness to her poor wounded 
spirit. 


He was so absorbed in thought that he did 
not perceive the approach of a party of horse- 
men who were crossing the lawn, until they 
were almost at the steps. Then Mr. Selwyn 
and Mr. Brown came hurrying from the sta- 
bles, and Mr. Vincent and Herr Muller from 
Mr. Selwyn’s room, and he saw by the eager 
greetings that the new comers were persons 
of importance. 

It was in fact the sheriff himself, with his 
posse, and his first words were : 

“Well, gentlemen, we have solved your 
mystery and found your murderer.” 

“Indeed !” cried Mr. Selwyn. “That is 
good news. Come in Smithson and tell us 
all about it. Who is it, and where is he ?” 

“Dead,” replied the sheriff. “Where are 
you, Mr. Coroner? It will, I suppose, be an- 
other case for you. This is the whole story : 
You remember you told me that a servant of 
Mr. Carlton had expressed a hatred of Mr. 
Maxwell. Well, I got his description; he was 
not to be found at Mr. Vincent’s, and the 
people there said that his speech was differ- 
ent from that of our people. I feared that 
he would make for the swamp, and spread 
my men out in that direction to intercept 
him, for once in the swamp it is hard to find 
anybody. That is the reason why we have 
been so long. I suppose the fellow did not 
know the country, and so kept as near as he 
thought safe to the high road by which he 
came here, and we did not at first go in that 
direction. But last night I got word that a 
man, well dressed, but with a torn shirt front, 
(you remember that bit of white cloth,) and 
speaking with a twang, had been seen hiding 
in the bushes near Abbott’s Cross-roads. We 
started at once, and got there at daylight this 
morning; they told us that he had come to 
the store at the cross-roads, and bought bread 
and whiskey late the evening before, and had 
paid for it with a ten dollar bill — not very usual 
for a negro, you know. He had spoken of going 
towards H — , so we followed and soon came 
upon him. When he saw us he knew at once 
who we were, took to the bushes and ran. 
We followed, but the road was thick and we 
did not gain much. I called to him, threat- 
ening to shoot, but he held on until' his 
foot, I suppose, slipped, for he was full in 
view, not a hundred yards ahead, when he 
stumbled and fell. His gun seemed to catch 
on a bush, for it went off, right into him. 
When we got to him, he was bleeding from 
the lungs. We tried to stop the blood and 
keep the life in him, but it wouldn’t do. I 
said: “Now, my man, you had better make 
a clean breast of it, and tell us W'hy you 
killed Mr. Maxwell.” 

He said: “I don’t know any Mr. Maxwell, 
he name Mr. Alford, and I kill him cause he 
threaten for shoot me.” 

“Why did he threaten to shoot you ?” I 
asked. 

“’Cause I know him long time ago in Mis- 
sissip. An’ when I see him to the hunt I tell 
Mas Hugh. He, Mr. Alford, am berry bad 
man. Mas Hugh say, ‘No, he, Mr. Maxwell, 


53 


ashurst; or the d 

an’ you nebber see him before;’ but I know I 
right, an’ tell Mas Hugh so. Den Mas Hugh 
say, ‘go home now to Mr. Vincent and wait 
till I come.’ But 1 want for see de hunt, an’ 

I stay bout de place. I walk bout till I tired, 
and the deer no come, so I start for go to Mr. 
Vincent house, and I see Mr. Alford by he 
stan’. I say, ‘Mr. Alford, wha’ you come 
here for? He turn berry pale an’ say, ‘Why 
you call me Alford? My name Maxwell.’ 

I say, ‘You know me, Mr. Alford. You mem- 
ber me on ole Mr. Carlton plantation in Mis- 
sissip.’ Den he turn roun’ for get him gun 
an’ say, ‘I shoot you if you call me dat name 
here.’" An’ I say, ‘I call you dat name, an’ 
you shan’t shoot me.’ He run for him gun. 

I catch him. He trow me down an’ tear me 
shirt. Den I jump on him an’ knock him 
in he head. He drop same like he dead. Den 
I talk to him, an’ he be dead. Den I fraid, 
an’ I take him gun an’ him money an’ I run 
way. 

“Did you ask him,” said Mr. Selwyn eagerly, 
“what he had done that he thought him so 
bad ?” 

“Yes; but he was failing fast, and I could 
get nothing from him but Tong time ago.’ ” 

Hugh drew a long breath of relief. 

“I asked him,” continued the sheriff, “if 
any one had seen him or knew what he had 
done? He said, ‘No, nobody.’ He was very 
weak then, dying, and 1 asked him if he did 
not repent, but he only said, ‘No, I ain’t sorry; 
him berry bad man. Tell Mas Hugh him 
berry bad man.’ Aud so he died.” 

“I congratulate you, Mr. Carlton,” said Mr. 
Brown turning to him, “on being so com- 
pletely cleared, and the young lady too. This 
boy of yours, are you very much attached to 
him ?” for Hugh looked terribly agitated. 

“i knew him but little myself,” said Hugh, 
after a pause. “Indeed, I have been so little 
at home for many years past, that I know 
hardly anything of my own people, but he 
was a favorite of my father’s, and, therefore, 
when I wanted a servant to come on with me 
this winter I brought him. He told me at the 
hunt, the other dav just what he told you, and 
he had known Alford, as he called him, when 
I was away at college.” 

“I must summon the jury,” said Mr, Brown, 
“to give the necessary verdict. I am sure 
that we are all delighted to have no need for 
painful doubt,” and he bowed to Hugh. But 
Hugh could not answer. He went to his 
room, bolted his door and gave himself up to 
a rapture of thanksgiving and joy which we 
dare not attempt to describe. 

It is needless to relate the second meeting 
of the jury. Herr Muller and old Mrs. Sel- 
wyn were called to prove that Maxwell had 
at one time in his youth been called Alford, 
and Hugh was asked what knowledge his ser- 
vant could have had of him. But he simply 
repeated the statement which he had already 
made, and no further questions were asked. 
The jury gave their verdict and finally de- 
parted, it being arranged that Maxweil’s fune- 
ral should take place on the following day. 


AYS THAT ARE NOT. 

Hugh also obtained permission from the 
sheriff to have his too faithful follower buried 
with decency, and Mr. Vincent despatched 
his own head driver to attend to it. 

In the meantime Hugh was burning with 
curiosity and anxiety about Janet. No one 
suspecting that he had any peculiar interest 
in her, he could get only vague answers of 
“much the same, thank you,” from Mr. Sel- 
wyn, who began to look rather surprised at 
the frequency of his questions. Neither of 
the Selwyn ladies was visible, and he was en- 
tirely at a loss until late in the evening. En- 
tering the house by the garden door, he met 
Herr Muller coming down stairs. 

The old man started, and cried out: “Why 
Oott bewahr ! Here is the red aDgry young 
man who rode from_ Buckstone ! You are 
pale enough now Junker. Whyfor came 
there you at all ? 

“I came to see Miss Janet Berkley,” said 
Hugh with desperate courage. “And I wish 
I could see her now. Do tell me. Doctor, how 
she is, and when I shall see her.” 

“See her — see her — why Junker it is only 
six hours that she lay as a figure— only the 
great eyes burning — but now — ” 

“Yes, now ? You have told her everything 
and she is better is she not ? 

“ Himmel ! I tell her everything ? Her aunt 
meine dame told her they the murderer had 
found, a poor negro boy, to see if she 
would understand.” 

“And did she ?” 

“Yes, she pressed her hands and cried, 
‘Thank God,’ and then she cried, and cried, 
and cries still. Her aunt would to stop her, 
but I told her no, so she will outweep her 
grief, aud the fever goes itself away. She 
will be right soon. But these others, these 
ladies which I understand myself not at all — 
ach! they are terrible women.” 

“Have they said anything more ?” 

“Only to curse all things. Poor thing she 
was not always that; she loved and forgave, 
but he — he made her so; and the young one 
who sits, and sits and says never a word— she 
is his daughter, einteufels kind ,” 

At this very time, however, Janet- was lying 
quietly, crying no more. The beneficent flood 
of tears had carried with it the heat, the be- 
wilderment aud the confusion of the last few 
days, and although weak as an infant she was 
composed and able to think. 

She knew nothing as yet of Mrs. Berkley 
and Agnes, or of their connection with Max- 
well; Mrs. Selwyn not thinking her strong 
enough to hear it, and her great grief now was 
the falsehood which she had told in order to 
screen Hugh. 

“Ah !” thought she, “How angry he will 
be when he knows why 1 said it. When he 
knows that I believed him guilty ! that he 
had broken his promise to his sister. How 
could I have thought so ! Oh, I am weak, 
weak and not trustful. If I had trusted him 
as I ought from the beginning, all this would 
never have happened. I am justly punished. 
And far into the night, the poor child prayed 


54 


ashurst; or the days that are not. 


forgiveness for her sin, and strength for her 
comiDg lonely life. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

Adieu ! 

Maxwell had been buried. The grave, sol- 
emn words of the funeral service have, per- 
haps, been seldom said over a worse man. 

But it is one great beauty of that service, 
never heard until the mighty angel has 
claimed its victim, that in it man is not con- 
sidered in his works, but in his being; not for 
what he has done, but for what he is; a crea- 
ture of God taken home to his Creator. And 
so the same words are spoken for the good 
and the bad, even as “He letteth His sun 
shine on the evil and the good, and sendeth 
His rain upon the just and the unjust.” 

The congregation dispersed very quietly 
after the blessing had been given, not without 
a feeling of relief that “this terrible business 
was over.” Only Messrs. Selwyn, Vincent, 
Brown, and Carlton returned together to 
Ashurst, to make the necessary arrangements 
with Mrs. Berkley. 

“It seems a terrible thing,” said the soft- 
hearted Mr. Selwyn as they rode along to- 
gether, “to go to a woman the very day of her 
husband’s funeral, and after such a death too, 
and force her to tell all her sins. Does it not, 
Brown?” 

“How much of a husband?” demanded Mr. 
Brown. “1 am not up to any compassion for 
Mrs. Maxwell, Selwyn. But I do feel great 
pity for poor Jem Berkley — I knew him well, 
and I surpect that he had some things to bear. 
Your family, too, may still have much un- 
pleasantness to go through, for if this lady 
‘cuts up rough,’ as we say, she may give us 
great trouble.” 

Arrived at Ashurst, Messrs. Vincent and 
Brown, with Herr Midler, went to their in- 
terview with Mrs. Berkley, Mr. Ralph Selwyn 
to his brother, and Hugh, left to himself, 
wandered forlorn, until seeing Mrs. Ralph 
Selwyn in the shubbery, he joined her there. 
She was, she told him, enjoying the fresh air, 
released from her attendance upon Janet, 
who had been able to go to her grandfather. 
“I do not understand it all,” she added. “My 
idea is that Janet came upon Mr. Maxwell 
dead or dying in the wood, and that it so 
turned her brain that she really was delirious 
from that moment, and not able to give a 
clear account of anything. She certainly was 
in a state of high excitement when she left 
our house that morning.” 

Hugh then took heart of grace, and told 
the whole story of his love and troubles to 
the kind lady, suppressing only the special 
piece of villany of which he had rushed to 
warn Janet. With deepening color he told 
how in the ensuing conversation on the very 
day of the murder each had discovered the 
other’s heart, how they had confessed and 
how they had parted. And he ended by con- 
juring Mrs. Selwyn to stand his friend with 


| Janet’s grandparents, and to contrive that he 
should have an interview with her as soon as 
possible; “for indeed,” he said, “I shall never 
feel safe or secure from some malign influence 
until I have her sweet presence again, with 
no doubts to come between us.” 

Mrs. Selwyn listened wonderingly, and en- 
tered into the story with the interest that a 
true woman always feels in a love tale, readily 
promising to do all she could for him. 

“She has some other trouble, I think,” she 
added. “I do not know what. It may only 
be that her nerves have been so terribly 
shaken, but she cries at a look, and seems 
still afraid. At all events the sooner you 
meet the better, and I will arrange it when 
this business of Mrs. Berkley (if we are still 
to call her so) is over.” 

A servant came to summon them to the 
house, and returning to the drawing room 
they found old Mrs. Selwyn there, with Mr. 
Ralph Selwyn and George Berkley. The 
latter had been written for, as soon as Herr 
Muller’s revelations had been made, and had 
but just arrived. 

These three sat in solemn conclave, waiting 
for the two envoys who now entered— Mr. 
Vincent looking hot and red, Mr. Brown 
pale but triumphant, and holding a paper in 
his hand. The latter advanced to old Mrs. 
Selwyn, whom he had not seen before, and, 
after some greeting, said : 

“I ventured to ask that you would be pre- 
sent, madam, while I read this extraordinary 
statement, because Miss Berkley is your ward, 
and also because if you should detect any er- 
rors or falsehoods in it we can have them cor- 
rected while those ladies are still here. They 
propose to leave immediately, and this affair 
had better be settled at once. We should 
never, I am convinced, have got so full a con- 
fession if Mrs. — Maxwell was not so be- 
wildered by Herr Muller’s confusing style of 
talk, as to suppose that we knew far more 
than we really did. But under this impres- 
sion we have obtained it.” 

“And I must say,” broke in Mr. Vincent, 
“that if ever I have anything to hide, may 
God preserve me from Brown ! I suppose it 
is being a lawyer and a coroner combined, 
but a lemon has more chance in a squeezer 
than that poor woman had with him. He got 
the story from her drop by drop, till I could 
see her shrivel.” It was impossible not to 
laugh, but Mr. Brown, declaring that he con- 
sidered it a compliment to his professional 
abilities, began, looking at Mrs. Selwyn : 

“We must go back, madam, to the time 
at which your nephew married Miss Agnes 
Peacroft. At that time this lady, then Miss 
Penelope Peacroft, having had some quarrel 
with her father, had left home, and was keep- 
ing a little school in a small village in New' 
Hampshire. There she met Mr. Maxwell, 
then bearing the name of Alford. He was a 
youth at college, and had come there to read 
during the summer vacation. They fell in 
love and were married. He insisted that the 
marriage should be kept secret, because he 


ashurst; or the DAYS THAT 'ARE not. 


55 


was entirely dependent upon his mother, who 
would, he told her, be very angry and stop 
the supplies. She, therefore, did not mention 
it to her family. In the meantime she heard 
from her mother of Mrs. Berkley’s return and 
death, and that the infant had been left with 
her.” 

‘‘After a time Mrs. Alford’s own child was 
born, and then came the desertion of which 
Herr Muller has already told you. All of it 
is written here,” looking at his paper. 

“She then wrote to her mother for help; 
but the old woman at first refused togsve any 
assistance, or to believe in the legality of her 
marriage; but at last she received a letter say- 
ing that Mrs. Berkley’s child, always a puny 
infant, was evidently dying, and that with its 
life the very handsome income paid by Mr. 
Berkley for its support would also cease. The 
grandmother, under these circumstances, pro- 
posed that they should meet at a certain vil- 
lage, which she named, and await there the 
death of the elder child, and after some time 
return home together, substituting the living 
Alford for the dead Berkley baby. This plan 
was successfully carried out. Both children 
had had the dark eyes of their mothers, there 
was no great difference of ag;e, and the 
change was unsuspected. This went on 
until the death of the old woman, and then 
came, as you know, Mr. Berkley’s third 
marriage. Mrs. Maxwell protests, however, 
that at that time she firmly believed her first 
husband to be dead, she having from time to 
time made such inquiries concerning him as, 
without exciting suspicion, she could do, and 
never hearing of his existence. His resuming 
his own name of Maxwell accounts for this. 
She had been married for some time, in fact 
it was not until some eight or ten months 
before Mr. Berkley’s death that she met him 
in D — y under the name of Maxwell. She 
knew him, she says, instantly, and almost 
died of fright. He knew her too, and sought 
an interview, evidently ruling her entirely. 
She bought his silence by promising to give 
him all the money that she could possibly 
obtain, and it is curious to hear her even now 
complain of the shifts and contrivances to 
which he thus forced her.” 

“Then came Mr. Berkley’s death, and now 
the plot thickens. She says,” (reading from 
the paper,) “that Mr. Berkley desired her to 
send for Mr. Crofts to make his will, and 
fearing that he might lose his powers dictated 
to her a memorandum, the provisions of 
which were: That the fortune of his second 
wife should be given to her daughter; that 
his own property should be divided into 
three equal portions between the two young 
ladies and herself; that she should have the 
guardianship of Miss Agnes, and Mr. Selwyn 
that of Miss Janet. She had just finished 
writing these directions, when the messenger 
sent for Mr. Crofts returned with Mr. Max- 
well. Maxwell took the paper, and said: 
‘This will never do— you shall nave all, and I 
will marry you myself.’ She was frightened, 
but he insisted, and soon returned with two 


wills, the one drawn up according to the in- 
structions, the other the one which you have 
seen. He desired her to read the first to the 
dying man, and then substituting the second, 
which exactly resembled it in appearance, to 
make him sign that, he himself undertaking 
to engage Mr. George Berkley and the doc- 
tors in conversation while the change was 
being made, to divert their attention.” 

Here Mr. Brown paused, and looked at 
George Berkley, who, turning very red, ac- 
knowledged, “It is all true. I see it now. I 
was a fool.” 

Mr. Brown resumed : “The fraudulent will 
being thus signed, all seemed safe, and she 
fully expected that at the end of her year of 
mourning Mr. Maxwell would present him- 
self as her suitor and marry her, when he 
suddenly informed her that he had changed 
his mind. 

“I must ask your pardon, madam, for 
introducing your granddaughter’s name in 
such a connection, but the fact is that he had 
seen Miss Janet Berkley, and had fallen des- 
perately in love with her.” 

“The scoundrel !” cried George Berkley, 
jumping up. “Do you mean to say that he 
meant to ruin James Berkley’s daughter too?” 

“Softly, softly, my dear sir. No, he meant 
to keep Mrs. Berldey’s mouth shut, by leaving 
her all Mr. Berkley’s fortune, and to secure in 
Mr. Selwyn’s heiress a lovely and wealthy 
bride for himself. He was, she says, infatua- 
ted, foolishly enamoured — these are her ex- 
pressions, I beg you to observe. I fancy that 
the weak joint in his armor, (for he must have 
been a very clever man,) was that he did love, 
after the fashion of such men, women. Mrs. 
Maxwell says that she has had intimations of 
several such affairs in his life,” (Hugh’s 
fingers gripped the arms of his chair,) 
“although he never committed himself to 
her.” 

“She did not give in to this easily. Perhaps 
the most horrible part of her whole conduct 
is, that there is not the slightest symptom of 
any concern or contrition as regards Miss 
Berkley. Her sole desire was to keep him for 
herself, for up to that time she seemed to have 
had some sort of love for him, but she was 
entirely under hack, and although this deser- 
tion made her hate him, she had to consent, 
and to pay the heavy blackmail all the time; 
a tax which he promised should cease when, 
through her help, he had secured Miss Berk- 
ley. This they seem to have been sure that 
he would do, until a new actor, appeared on 
the scene. And here, Mr. Carlton, you come 
in.” 

All eyes turned on Hugh, who, crimson to 
the roots of his hair, was glad to able to an- 
swer : “I have already told my part of the 
story to Mrs. Ralph Selwyn.” 

“And he has my warmest sympathy,” cried 
that lady. 

Old Mrs. Selwyn looked amazed, and Mr. 
Selwyn cried l 

“Well, go on, for I don’t comprehend at 
all.” 


56 


asburst; .or the bays that are not. 


“Mr. Carlton, if you fear an apoplexy, you 
had better go into the open air,” said Mr. 
Brown. “Your modesty will he sorely tried, 
for the fact is, ladies and gentlemen, that 
Miss Agnes Berkley, as she has hitherto been 
called, fell so much in love with Mr. Carlton 
that she, who had hitherto opposed this 
scheme, and wished for the marriage of her 
unacknowledged parents, threw herself heart- 
ily into it, in order to get Miss Janet, whom 
she perceived he preferred, out of her way; and 
Mr. Maxwell, on his part, fearing so young 
and dangerous a rival,” (with a provoking lit- 
tle bow to Hugh) “also urged Mrs. Berkley to 
effect a marriage between Mr. Carlton and 
Miss Agnes, in order to get him out of 
his way." You perceive the double plot ? By 
a skilful series of inventions Mrs. Berkley 
succeeded in this last, and, the coast thus 
left clear, Mr. Maxwell came here fully ex- 
pecting to be accepted by Miss Janet, but I 
am informed that she had expressed a de- 
cided aversion to him, before his career was 
so unexpectedly cut short.” 

“It is true,” said Mrs. Ralph Selwyn, “she 
told me herself of it.” 

“It is now evident,” continued Mr. Brown, 
that the Deus ex machina, or rather, if I may 
say so, the Dii, have been that negro lad, 
who was probably avenging some base act, 
and your old German doctor. Of all the od- 
dities in this world he is surely the oddest. 
He has not even now the least idea of the 
real state of the case, and tries to console 
Mrs. Maxwell for the husband whom she 
hated, and Miss Agnes for the father whom, 
to speak mildly, she seems to have loathed, 
Whenever Mrs. Maxw r ell would hesitate, o. 
try to prevaricate, he would exclaim, ‘Ahr 
yes, thou poor soui, he knoweth all; ease thy 
poor heart by telling thy woes; thou hast been 
deceived, thou weak one,’ and so on, until 
she was fairly bewildered.” 

“1 am almost as much bewildered,” said 
Mr. Selwyn. “Unless she cared something 
for Maxwell, Brown, she would hardly have 
been so overcome at seeing him dead. I hear 
her shrieks now.” 

“Women are queer combinations,” said Mr. 
Brown, with a deprecatory look at the two 
Mrs. Selwyns. “Not easy to understand any 
of them, and such a specimen as this, fortu- 
nately, seldom comes in one’s way. But you 
must remember, Mr. Selwyn, that she had 
also to shriek at being found out. Also there 
was the money for which she certainly does 
care. Herr Muller has no notion that her 
present distress is caused by so base a consid- 
eration.” 

“Well,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “as her wicked 
plots have failed, and she is brought to 
naught, I am glad that she has some one to 
be kind to her. I myself could not be; and 
I do not choose Janet to see her. Tell me, 
gentlemen, what can we do to save scandal 
to my poor nephew’s name ?” 

“You will not, of course, wish to perpetu- 
ate the fraud by calling these persons by it,” 
said Mr. Brown. 


“No, no,” said George Berkley, “I claim to 
have a voice there. Cousin Anna, let me 
suggest that you allow these women a cer- 
tain' pension, "on condition that they go away 
— out of this country, and resume, or rather 
assume, their proper name, which I suppose 
is Maxwell. And let the pension depend on 
their keeping all this story quiet, and making 
no attempt to call themselves Berkley.” 

“I advise you so also,” added Mr. Ralph 
Selwyn. 

“People will talk, of course,” continued 
Mr. Berkley, “but that can’t be helped; this 
is the best we can do. We were all fools and 
blind, I think, not to suspect something of 
this kind before, except my wife, who is cer- 
tainly the cleverest woman in the world ! Sfoe 
told me the day of James’ funeral that they 
were accomplices.” 

“You told me so at the time,” observed 
Mr. Selwyn, “but I own that I thought it 
nonsense. George’s plan is a good one; Brown, 
do you not think so ?” 

“The best possible,” answered the lawyer, 
“although I must observe that legally these 
ladies are not entitled to the sixpence.” 

“We cannot think of that,” said Mrs. 
Selwyn; “we must buy silence, and indeed I 
could not feel morally justified in turning 
them upon the world penniless. If Agnes 
had only not joined in the conspiracy against 
my child — ” 

“Mrs. Selwyn,” broke in the lawyer, “for 
Heaven’s sake waste no compassion on that 
young lady. She has no vestige of conscience 
or compunction — is, I should say, a far more 
dangerous character than her mother, for even 
in the few words that she lets fall I can see 
her father’s force of character and strength of 
will. With her great beauty she will do a 
great deal of harm to men yet.” 

“Then, Mr. Brown, as unhappily I cannot 
consult my husband, I must beg you to act 
by my authority. In another year Janet will 
be of age, and will be ready to confirm it. As 
you have been so good already I hope that 
you will do us the favor to manage the rest 
of this business.” 

Mr. Brown declared his willingness, and 
sought another interview with the ladies. 
The ci-devant Mrs. Berkley would have made 
some resistance, but Agnes comprehending 
instantly how useless objection was, and see- 
ing the advantages of the plan proposed, over- 
ruled her. 

“We will go away,” she said to Mr. Brown, 
“and trouble them no more. Send the money 
to Paris under the address, ‘Mrs. Alford.’ I 
don’t want any connection known with him. 
In Paris I shall find a career.” 

“Very probably,” replied the lawyer, 
coolly. 

“And tell Hugh Carlton,” she continued, 
with a slight, tremor in her voice, that I wish 
him joy of that pale doll — my sister ! He 
little knows what / would have been to him.” 

“Have you no word of penitence f 9 said 
Mr. Brown sternly, “no prayer for pardon to 
address to the young lady whose life you 


ashurst; or the days that are not. 


57 


tried to ruin, and on whose bounty you will 
now live ?” 

“Prayer — pardon — penitence!” she cried with 
a horrid laugh. “I was born without them; 
he took the power of them from me with my 
birth. But I forgive hey the theft of my 
lover. Let us go, Mr. Brown, we have uo 
place here.” 

So they went, and the inmates of Ashurst 
saw them no more. 

Mrs. Ralph Selwyn in the meanwhile had a 
private interview with her sister-in-law, the 
result of which was, that soon after Agnes 
and her mother had departed, Janet was told 
to put on a warm shawl and go out iuto the 
shrubbery where it was sheltered, and take a 
good walk in the twilight for exercise. 

Whom she met in the shrubbery or how 
long she walked there needs not to be told. 
Much there was to be said on both sides. 
Much of the awful fears which had for many 
hours possessed each for the other, and Janet 
confessed her falsehood with blushes and hot 
tears, which Hugh dried as best he might. 
Hugh spoke with wonder and gratitude of 
the fidelity of poor Cyrus, who even in dying 
had faithfully guarded his young mistress’ 
secret, and Janet told how he had even 
avoided mentioning that it was with Hugh’s 
whip that he had done the deed. Hugh 
started with surprise. 

“I had forgotten the whip entirely,” he 
said. “I remember now throwing it from 
me in my rage as we talked in the road, that I 
might not be tempted to strike him with it. 
Cyrus must have found it on the ground. And 


you did this for me, my darling ? You with 
your little pure hands hid the instrument of 
death !” And he kissed the little hands again 
and again. 

“You do not know,” he began, “how hor- 
rible that conversation was — the unblushing 
villany, fearing nothing but detection, and 
the fierce determination, at all costs and by 
any means, to have you. He even dared to 
say—” 

But Janet put her fingers on his lips. 

“Why should you repeat it?” she said. 
“He is dead; let his sins and his threats die 
with him. There is nothing to part us now, 
Hugh, and it is easy to forgive and forget.” 

“You must teach me to do it, my love,” he 
answered; “teach me, by forgetting all this 
pain yourself, so that no grudge shall re- 
main.” 

It was growing late and cold, and a servant 
came to call them in. The moon was shining 
clear above the oaks as they returned to the 
ho ;se, and Hugh, holding back his fair com- 
panion, said, fondly : 

“Now Janet, say what I begged you to say 
two years ago, looking at another moon like 
this. Say this is a happy day.” 

“This is a happy day,” she repeated, look- 
ing up at him as he passed his arm around 
her. “So happy, and after so much suffer- 
ing ! Oh, Hugh ! let us pray that He will 
teach us so to number our days that we may 
apply our hearts unto wisdom.” And Hugh 
clasped his hands over hers, and followed 
solemnly the softly murmured words. 


The End. 



4 


ASHURST; 


G’R 


a 


The Days That Are Not.” 


THE PRIZE STORY 


From the Charleston Weekly News. 


CHARLESTON, S. C. 

THE NEWS AND COURIER BOOK PRESSES. 
1879. 













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